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THE 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY 



OF A 



"NEWSPAPER GIRL 



55 



BY 

ELIZABETH L. BANKS 

author of 
"Campaigns of Curiosity." 



u 







NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 

1902 



THE USRAfifY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

OCT, 2 |902 

.Copyright entry 

CLASS 0U XXo. No 
U-I vA 4T 

COPY 8. 



^27 



Copyright, 1902, 
By Dodd, Mead & Company. 



First Edition Published October, 1902. 



TO THAT MODEL EDITOR 

WHO COMBINES ENGLISH COURTEOUSNESS WITH AMERICAN 
ENTERPRISE, WHO ACCEPTS MY ARTICLES BEFORE READING 
THEM, PAYS FOR THEM BEFORE PRINTING THEM, WHOSE 
CHECKS HAVE THESE SEVERAL YEARS HELPED ME TO KEEP 
THE POT A-BOILING, YET, WHO, BEING MODEST AND RE- 
TIRING IN HIS DISPOSITION, WOULD NOT WISH ME TO 
NAME HIM, THESE REMINISCENCES ARE DEDICATED BY 

HIS CONSTANT CONTRIBUTOR. 






CONTENTS 



OHAPTBK PAGE 

I. I am Committed to the Charge of the 

Angels 1 

II. The "Angels," and What They were Like 8 

III. I Go to Peru as a " Girl Diplomat " . 22 

IY. Into the Wide, Wide World of Journalism 37 

V. In London Town 52 

VI. When I Began to Starve in London . 65 

VII. I Become a Maidservant . . . . 79 

VIII. When I Found Myself a " Heroine " . 92 

IX. Why I Did Not Become a Salvation Army 

"Lassie" . . . . . .107 

X. A Deal in Ancestors 116 

XI. A Midnight Holocaust . . . .132 

XII. On the Bringing Out of a First Book . 141 

XIII. An American Millionaire Hunts Me Up 145 

XIV. The Departure of Dinah .... 157 
XV. Economy for Two 165 

XVI. An Encounter with Mrs. Lynn Linton . 180 

XVII. Home Again and in '■ the Way of Life " 193 

XVIII. In the Kingdom of the " Yellow " . . 207 

XIX. ««, . . . and Have not Charity " . 220 

XX. A Little Joyousness and Some Tragedy 224 



viii CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XXI. The Love Story of Miss Johnstone, Jour- 
nalist 235 

XXII. The Story of a "Failure" . . .249 

XXIII. Some Proposals and Some Love-letters 261 

XXIY. An " Editorial Bouquet " . . .271 

XXV. On Interviewing and Some Interviews 283 

XX VI. About My Enemies, and the Meanest Man 

I ever Met ., . . . . 296 

XXVII. Looking Backward — and Forward . 307 



THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 



CHAPTER I. 

I AM COMMITTED TO THE CHARGE OF THE ANGELS. 

"He shall give his angels charge concerning thee, 
and in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any 
time thou dash thy foot against a stone." 

This was the benediction that was brokenly spoken 
over me, by my venerable relative and guardian, when 
one day I left my Wisconsin farm home, full of youth 
and health and confidence, to earn my own living and 
make a career. 

My going away was an important event in that 
quiet neighborhood, and there were gathered about 
the little village station in spring-seated wagonettes 
and hard-seated lumber-wagons, many farmers and 
their families who stood up high and waved their 
handkerchiefs to me as the train moved away. 

Another time, a few years before, there had also 
been a little stir in the place over a leave-taking of 
mine. Then I had gone away to boarding school, a 
female seminary, where I was told I must study hard 
and learn my lessons and finally graduate with 



2 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

honors, to show my appreciation of all the sacrifices 
that were being made in my farm home to give me 
the advantages of a college education. 

"Now, remember/' my relative had said to me at 
that time, "yon are going away to school so yon can 
make yonrself capable of taking care of yourself when 
yon are four years older. You are a poor girl, with- 
out a penny you can call your own in all the world. 
Think of that when you are tempted to have a good 
time instead of studying hard." 

So during the four years at the seminary I remem- 
bered it, and though at school I never got the name 
of being a "book-worm" or a "goodey" — indeed, 
though I even became a member of a select set known 
as the "Society of the Ten Imps" — I did study hard, 
always with the end in view of preparing to support 
myself. As it seemed to me I should like best to 
earn my living by writing for the newspapers, I paid 
particular attention to such studies as I thought 
would help me in that way, and my "compositions," 
in which I never described anything that did not 
really happen to myself or some of my schoolmates, 
gained for me a sort of local fame. 

Then in four years I graduated in a white frock 
with a piece of embroidery around the bottom — a 
frock that, I was informed by my relative on the 
farm, must be especially well taken care of, it having 
been procured at the village store in exchange for 
ten pounds of butter and eight dozen eggs. 

When I had returned home the summer of my 
graduation, and my sheepskin diploma had been 
framed and hung in the parlor to be proudly ex- 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 3 

hibited to every caller, I set myself to learning ste- 
nography and typewriting, with the idea of at once 
becoming a newspaper reporter. Then I wrote to 
the editors of all the newspapers I had ever heard of, 
and offered them my valuable services. Never an 
answer came back, though I had inclosed a stamped 
envelope for reply in every letter. I decided that 
editors must be approached personally, and not by 
letter, and I concluded that in order to get to the 
places where editors lived and newspapers were pub- 
lished, I must obtain some sort of situation in a large 
town. Then I sent out another batch of letters, this 
time to all the large stores, or shops, that I saw adver- 
tised in the semi-weekly newspaper that came to the 
farm, asking for a position as stenographer and type- 
writer, at any wages they liked to offer. Out of 
thirty letters I got one reply offering me a situation. 
It was from a wholesale grocer in a large Western 
city, who offered me eight dollars per week to write 
his letters and keep account of his cash. The situa- 
tion was accepted, and then came my second leave- 
taking at the village station, and it was then that I 
went out into the wide world, happy and confident, 
though all alone, committed to the charge of the 
angels. 

When I arrived in the city I hunted up a boarding 
house, where I was to be fed and lodged for five dol- 
lars a week. The landlady found me a washerwoman 
who would do my laundry work for fifty cents a week, 
and when the next morning I began work in my first 
situation, I saw that out of my eight dollars weekly 



4 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

salary, I should have left over for clothes and sun- 
dries, just two and a half dollars. 

For several months I wrote the grocer's letters, 
kept his cash accounts and made myself, as he fre- 
quently told me, his valuable assistant. The grocer's 
desk was near a very large window over which the 
curtain was never drawn. The table with my type- 
writing machine upon it was also placed near this 
window, and there, among the tastefully displayed 
exhibits of sugars, coffees, teas, soaps and canned 
goods, I sat all day and wrote on the machine. People 
stopped and looked at me, along with the specimen 
goods in the window, till my face would grow red, 
tears of embarrassment would roll down my cheeks 
and my fingers trembled as they flew over the type- 
writer keys. I knew that the grocer had no intention 
of making an advertisement of me, yet nevertheless 
I said to him rather bitterly one day: — 

"Mr. Samson, don't you think you had better mark 
me 'Exhibit A,' so those people out there will know 
just where to place me among your goods?" 

I pointed to the pavement outside, where half a 
dozen men stood looking into the window. The 
grocer pulled down the curtain with a bang and car- 
ried my typewriter and table over to an obscure 
corner, where I could no longer serve as an advertise- 
ment for the shop. 

But just at that time I began to grow tired of the 
grocery business and decided it was time to start out 
in newspaper work. So I wrote a long article, head- 
ing it "All About Typewriter Girls," and sent it to 
the editor of the Daily Hustler, the principal news- 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 5 

paper in the city, saying in my note to him, "Please 
publish this in your next Sunday's paper. It is all 
true." 

Remarkable as it may seem, the next Sunday the 
article was published on the front page of the paper. 

On Monday morning I said to my employer, the 
wholesale grocer : — 

"I shall be leaving you on Saturday night. I am 
going to be a newspaper reporter." 

My reason for thus summarily resigning was that 
I had seen my article in print, and I doubted not that 
all I had to do was to go and ask for a situation and 
find it ready to hand. 

During the noon hour I went to the man I had 
heard referred to as the owner of the paper. His 
office was on the fifth floor of the great newspaper 
building. To my knock at his office door he an- 
swered "Come in," and then I confronted an elderly, 
white-whiskered man with a kind face. 

"Do you own the paper?" I asked. 

"I'm inclined to think I do !" he answered, looking 
rather amused and surprised. 

"Then, will you please give me a situation on it? 
I had an article on the first page yesterday," I went 
on. "It was about typewriter girls. Now that I 
know I can write well enough to be published, I 
would like a regular salaried position." 

"I read your article," he said, "and I thought the 
editor was giving too much prominence to the first 
effort of a beginner." 

"Why, wasn't it good?" I exclaimed, amazed at 
such heartless criticism, and terrified at the thought 



6 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

that I had resigned my situation at the grocer's. "I 
thought you'd give me a place right away, and I told 
my employer I wouldn't work for him after Saturday 
night, because I was going to be a newspaper girl." 

"A newspaper girl, a newspaper girl !" the old man 
repeated to himself, musingly. Then he exclaimed 
suddenly, "Don't think of it, my poor child ! Be any- 
thing, but don't be a newspaper girl. Go back to 
your wholesale grocer and tell him you made a mis- 
take." 

He passed his hand over his brow as though try- 
ing to smooth out the wrinkles and collect thoughts 
concerning something that had happened in a time 
gone by. 

"I won't go back !" I replied, planting my feet 
firmly before his desk and looking at him defiantly. 
"I won't have the grocer laugh at me, and I'm deter- 
mined to be a newspaper girl. If you won't give me 
a place on your paper, I will go to Chicago and gei 
a place. There are lots of papers there, you know." 

"Don't go to Chicago, no, no !" he called out as he 
jumped up and rushed towards the door through 
which I was making my indignant exit. "Come here 
to my office next Monday morning at nine o'clock.j 
You are so little, I will see if I can find a hole to, 
stow you away in." 

The next Monday morning I appeared, smiling 
and radiant. The old man showed me a beautiful 
new typewriter with a wonderfully convenient desk. 

"I bought it Saturday, especially for you to write 
on," he said. "You will be my confidential clerk and 
secretary in the mornings, and in the afternoons you 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 7 

may try your hand at writing pieces for the editors 
upstairs. I'll pay you ten dollars a week to start on. 
It isn't much, but it's all my conscience tells me you'll 
be worth for the first two or three months." 

When I returned to my boarding house one night, 
I found there a letter, announcing the death of my 
Wisconsin relative. I cried myself to sleep, and in 
my dreams I heard again the old familiar voice say- 
ing, "He shall give his angels charge concerning 
thee," and I was comforted. 

So it was that I became a "newspaper girl." 



THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 



CHAPTER II. 



THE "ANGELS," AND WHAT THEY WERE LIKE. 



For about two months I was a sort of private sec- 
retary and confidential typist to the proprietor of the 
Daily Hustler, whose office, though in the same 
building, was far away and removed from the excite- 
ment and din of the editorial and reportorial rooms. 

During the long intervals between letter-writing, 
letter-filing, indexing and the straightening of pa- 
pers on my employer's desk, I would be bidden by 
the proprietor of the bustling Western paper to think 
up things for newspaper stories, to go out and walk 
about the town and see what was happening, to look 
into shop windows and observe all the new fashions, 
to go among the city poor and discover their joys and 
sorrows, to ride on the cable cars that traversed the 
principal streets of the town, and then to return and 
write about the things I had seen and heard, on my 
typewriting machine. Then, seated in his great 
office armchair, he would critically adjust his gold- 
rimmed spectacles and read over my first attempts at 
journalism before they were sent upstairs for the 
editors to pronounce judgment upon. 

"That's very bad. Don't send that up," he would 
sometimes say, as he sadly shook his head over a par- 
ticularly unpromising literary effort. Or again, 



OF A "NEWSPAPEK GIKL" 9 

"Well, well, that's not so bad. You might try it 
on the city editor, but, mind you, I can't promise 
you that he'll print it. I never interfere with the 
editorial department." So into his waste-basket 
went some of my writings, up to the editorial offices 
went others, till one day my employer said : — 

"I hear they have a great fashion-opening round at 
the Murrill Stores this afternoon. Suppose you go 
and see if you can write a funny piece about funny 
fashions. I don't know if they want anything like 
that upstairs, but if they do, and your piece is up to 
the mark, they might use it on Sunday." 

The "funny piece about funny fashions" made its 
way to the editorial rooms, and, to my great delight, 
it appeared the following Sunday, gayly illustrated 
and signed by a new pen name, "Polly Pollock." A 
few days after that, appearing at the office one morn- 
ing a little later than usual, I discovered that the 
corner which had been taken up with my desk and 
typewriter was empty. The old man sat busily writ- 
ing at his desk, and wheeled about to look at me 
when I shrieked out in tearful and terrified ac- 
cents : — 

"Where's my machine, oh, where's my machine? 
Is it stolen or have you dismissed me ?" 

"Yes, I've dismissed you, Miss Polly Pollock," he 
said, half smiling, half frowning, "but you've got 
another situation. My managing editor has engaged 
you as a society reporter and requires you and your 
typewriter upstairs in his domains. Go up now and 
see your new office and your new employer, but don't 



10 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

forget your old one. You're a full-fledged newspaper 
girl, now, and must take your chances with, the rest." 

So I graduated to the top floor of the newspaper 
building, and was turned over to what proved to be 
the very tender mercies of the managing editor and 
his assistants. When I worked in the proprietor's 
office I had always gone to my duties at nine in the 
morning and left off at five or six. Now, different 
hours were required, for I was to be a society reporter, 
and in the world of society nothing happened before 
three o'clock in the afternoon, and then things kept 
on happening till one or two o'clock the next morn- 
ing. I was told I need not arrive at the office until 
the middle of the afternoon, and I must expect to 
stay every night until my work was ready for the next 
morning's paper. 

In the pursuit of news I flitted hither and thither 
among the leaders and would-be leaders of fashion, 
taking notes of how Mrs. Brown was giving a pink 
tea and how Mrs. Green was going to pay a thousand 
dollars for a dress to be worn at a ball. It was as a 
society reporter that I gained my first introduction 
to the world of snobs and snobbery as well as to a 
world where there was much tenderness and sympa- 
thy and charity, — all under the guise of fashion. 
Shall I ever forget how I was once left on a hat-rack 
seat in the hall of an aspiring social leader (whose 
father was a blacksmith and whose mother was a 
washerwoman) while I heard the lady say to the 
servant : — 

"A reporter, did you say? Well, I suppose I must 
see her. She may be of use to me." 



OF A "JSTEWSPAPEK GIKL" 11 

How the hot tears dropped on to that polished 
hat-rack seat, as I reflected upon the vulgarity and 
common origin of the woman who thought I might 
be of "use" to her! And did I not on my return 
from that interview burst in upon the city editor with 
denunciations of the lady in question, demanding 
that I be allowed in my own special column to "do 
her up !" It was then that I received my first lesson 
in the art of returning good for evil in the newspaper 
profession, for instead of being allowed to "do her 
up/' I was instructed to give her a "good send-off," 
her husband being a large advertiser. 

But one night a silver lining appeared to my 
journalistic cloud, when I went to the Governor's 
great mansion on the hill to report the state ball. 
The Governor's wife told me to come in the next day 
and have luncheon with her, when she would give me 
notes of a great many society events that were coming 
off, and that after that I might call on her once a 
week, when she would make a point of keeping me 
well informed of all that society was doing that was 
worth knowing about. Then she introduced me to 
her son, who was home for the holidays from Yale, 
and he said: — 

"Will you give me the pleasure of the next waltz ?" 

"I am sure reporters are not expected to dance 
when they go to report state balls," I answered. 
"And besides, I'm not properly dressed. Why, I've 
even got a coat and hat on !" but I showed in my face 
a great longing for the waltz, which I felt that news- 
paper etiquette bade me refuse. 

"Oh, just throw the coat and hat off ! Say, mother, 



12 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

do you object to your son's dancing with a girl in a 
high-necked dress?" he said banteringly, turning to 
the first lady of the state. 

"Do dance with him," said the lady entreatingly. 
"Your dress is as pretty and stylish as possible." 

So I danced with the Governor's son, and during 
the dance I forgot I was only a newspaper girl, all 
alone in the world with nobody but the angels to 
take charge of me. The Governor's son put me in a 
cab and told the driver to "drive like lightning back 
to the Hustler office/' and I wrote a very glowing de- 
scription of that particular society "function." The 
city editor praised it, and I said, "Oh, but the ball 
was lovely ! I took off my coat and hat and waltzed 
with the Governor's son." 

He looked hard at me, then whistled, then tried to 
smile and look unconcerned, and when I was moving 
away from his desk, I heard him say to another editor 
who sat near him: — 

"Poor little girl! I didn't have the heart to tell 
her that she was hired to report balls and not to dance 
at them with governors' sons." 

Then I knew for certain that I had broken a rule 
of newspaper etiquette, but I could not make myself 
feel more than half sorry. 

I thought I was a very good American in those 
days, believing, according to the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence, that all men were born free and equal, and 
that birth and pedigree were not to be considered in 
the Land of Freedom, but many times after that 
ball I meditated upon the fact that the Governor's 
lady was said to be descended from a long line of 



OF A "NEWSPAPEE GIEL" 13 

British aristocrats, and that in her boudoir she treas- 
ured a certain book that told all about her family 
tree and her coat of arms and what mighty deeds 
were done by her great-great-great-grandfathers in 
the times of old England. Then I would think in- 
dignantly of the hat-rack experience with the daugh- 
ter of the washerwoman, and I pondered all those 
things in my heart. Shall I impress the readers of 
my memoirs as being altogether un-American, if I 
confess that even now, over here in England, I am 
pondering them still? 

Honesty compels me to say that during those first 
few months of my journalistic career there were not 
very many kind hands stretched out to me by the 
members of my own sex with whom my reportorial 
duties brought me in contact. A great many doors 
were slammed in my face at times ; patronizing airs 
were shown me at other times, and there were also 
cringings to me because of the power I was supposed 
to possess in a newspaper way. So many people 
"used" me. Flowers were often sent to me — won- 
derfully costly roses and orchids, tied with ribbons — 
and there were boxes of candies and presents of 
books. Along with such attentions, however, came 
photographs of aspiring society belles and matrons, 
with very crudely written notices to the effect that 
Mrs. or Miss So and So, whose photograph was in- 
closed, was giving a ball or a reception or was going 
to Europe, so that I early learned not to over-value 
the flowers and the bonbons. 

Once I was sent to a hotel at a summer resort, and 
a society woman, shaking hands with me, said, "I'm 



14 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

all alone, if you like to have dinner with me to-mor- 
row night. I have no such silly notions, as some 
persons have, about associating with newspaper 
women, though, of course, I wouldn't want you to 
repeat that you had dined with me." 

"Don't fear that I shall repeat it, since I will never 
dine with you!" I replied. 

During the winter, only occasionally, when I 
tramped through the snow on late nights to the vari- 
ous society "functions" to get descriptions of dresses, 
decorations and people, would the fact that I was 
cold — so cold sometimes that I could scarcely move 
my fingers to write the necessary notes — appear to 
be taken into consideration by society women. They 
seemed to regard me as a machine to make notes, to 
hurry away and write them up for my paper. Once, 
near midnight, I was going my round of evening 
parties, when, on the piazza of a grand stone mansion 
from which issued sounds of the revelry of the town's 
best society, I met a young woman, crouched under 
one of the porch pillars, a newspaper reporter like 
myself. She was nearly frozen, her teeth were chat- 
tering and she could scarcely speak. After a while 
she succeeded in explaining to me that she had got 
her report of the doings at that house, and was wait- 
ing on the porch for a cab which she had ordered to 
call there for her. 

"But why didn't you stay inside the house till it 
came, instead of waiting here in the snow and wind ?" 
I asked. 

"Oh, because when I got my report, I told them I 
had a cab coming for me and would have to wait, and 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 15 

I was ushered out of the door, the lady of the house 
saying, 'Very well, I suppose it will be along in a 
minute/ Oh, how cruel everybody is !" went on the 
girl, bitterly. "How I hate them all, how I hate 
them, and won't I get even with them all, one day !" 

Had it not been for the kindness of the mankind, 
with what I may charitably term the "thoughtless- 
ness" of the womankind, I met in those early days, 
I should have been in danger of becoming a pessimist 
and a cynic as regarded humanity; but somehow the 
"angels," — who turned out to be just plain, practical, 
ordinary Western American men, — kept my foot from 
dashing against the stone of unbelief. 

Frequently I found difficulty in filling my allotted 
space, yet notes for that society column I needs must 
have, so one day it occurred to me that I would call 
upon the husbands and fathers of the women and 
girls who gave balls and parties. Into the offices of 
lawyers, doctors, merchants, bankers and brokers I 
made my way. 

"Your wife gave a party last night, but I couldn't 
find anyone who would bother to tell me about it. 
Please tell me what sort of dress she wore, what 
people were there, and everything." 

Thus I would accost the busy merchant at his desk 
or the much-engaged lawyer among his briefs. 

"Why, bless my soul ! I'm not a society man. I 
leave all that to the women folks. Half the time I'm 
not even present at their goings on. What's that you 
say? Obliged to have a report for Sunday's paper? 
Well, now, let me think." 



16 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

This was the way I got my news of many an im- 
portant event. I would be confidentially informed 
of things that were coming off in the future so that 
I could go and see about them; and there was more 
than one business man in that town, who, taking no 
interest in the fashionable world himself, yet took 
the pains to jot down little society notes and send 
them to me at the office. Other news, besides that 
relating to society affairs, would also come to me in 
the same way, so that I was often able to go to the 
city editor and tell him that, although such and such 
a thing was not in my line, I could put him on to 
great happenings in the political and commercial 
world, and he became my firm friend and advocate, 
prophesying a brilliant future for the latest addition 
to his staff. 

The most unpleasant thing about my work was the 
late hours which society reporting made it necessary 
for me to keep. Balls were only in full swing at 
midnight, and they must be personally attended in 
order to be described in all their glory. To go to a 
ball at midnight, get notes and return to the office to 
write them out for publication in the morning paper, 
very frequently made the hour at which I could go 
home as late as one or two o'clock in the morning. 
At that hour the cable cars had ceased running, and 
the question of my getting home from the office was 
at first one that gave me many a bad half hour. I 
had, without intentional eavesdropping, heard this 
very subject discussed among the editors and re- 
porters the first time my work had kept me at the 
office till after midnight. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 17 

"Wait here in my room till I see how you are to 
get home," the city editor said, when I handed him 
my "copy," and then he went into the big reportorial 
room, where between fifteen and twenty men were 
writing away for dear life. 

"Of course, we'll have to look after her when the 
cars are stopped," I heard one of the men say. "One 
of us one night, another the next, and so on, don't 
you know." 

"Well, / can't do it to-night, anyway. Shan't be 
finished more than a minute before the paper goes to 
press. Two hours steady work at this blamed stump 
speech !" 

"See here, old stick-in-the-mud over there ! You've 
got to take the little girl home to-night, do you hear ? 
You haven't a thing to do now, and you're just hang- 
ing round to watch the rest of us work." 

"All right," I heard a voice say, and there was a 
scraping of a chair over the floor. "But I tell you 
what. It's an all-fired shame for girls to be working 
in newspaper offices at night, and I don't care how 
nice they are as girls, they're nothing but nuisances 
in a place like this at midnight. While I'm walking 
home with her, I'll ask the young lady to marry me, 
and that'll put an end to all our troubles." 

I did not wait to hear any more. In consterna- 
tion, indignation and self-pity, I rushed out of the 
office, jumped on to the elevator, and, descending from 
the top to the ground floor, made my way out alone 
and sorrowful into the midnight street. Never, I 
vowed, would any member of that newspaper staff 



18 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

again feel obliged to ask me to marry him in order 
to rid the office of a nuisance. 

At first I walked rapidly along the dark and de- 
serted streets which led to my boarding house. My 
indignant bravery soon gave way to fright and hys- 
terical tears. All the horrible stories I had read and 
heard of wicked, prowling city ruffians came vividly 
to my mind. I began to run, when I heard footsteps 
behind me. Some one was following me. Yes, as 
I ran faster, the footsteps behind me seemed to turn 
into long and mighty strides. I ran on, sobbing 
aloud, and by this time almost crazed with fear of 
I knew not what. Suddenly, I felt my arm clutched. 
I was caught — and by a policeman ! 

"What's the matter with ye? Where ye goin', and 
where ye been to, all alone at this time o' night? 
What ye makin' all this noise about ? I've been chasin' 
ye f er five minutes !" 

When the upholder of the city's laws thus ad- 
dressed me, I sobbed out: — 

"Oh, I'm so scared ! I'm a society reporter at the 
Hustler office, and I started to go home alone and 
I ran because I was afraid." 

"A reporter! Great Scott! Why, I thought ye 
was a criminal, fleein' from justice !" 

The policeman began to laugh, then suddenly 
sobering, he said: "Come along with me. I'll see 
ye get home safe to-night." 

For several blocks he walked by my side, giving it 
as his humble opinion that somebody ought to intro- 
duce a law into the legislature forbidding young 
ladies to do newspaper work. At a corner, he stopped. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 19 

"Now, I can't go any farther with ye, because this 
is the end of my beat, but Fll put ye in charge of 
the officer in the next beat, and hell go as far as he 
can, and give ye to another officer, till the first thing 
ye know ye'll be safe home/' 

A low whistle brought another policeman to the 
corner. 

"What have you got there?" asked the newcomer. 

"A little reporter, scared out of her senses. I've 
brought her this far, and I wish ye'd see her as far 
as ye can and then give her over to the officer of the 
beat where she lives and tell him to take her home." 

So I was handed over on that eventful night from 
the first officer to the second and from the second to 
the third, who delivered me safe and sound at my 
own door. I had no sooner closed it behind me than 
there was a violent pull at the bell. Opening it, I 
saw standing on the step one of the chief editors of 
the Hustler staff. 

"Thank God you're safe!" he exclaimed. "I just 
came to wake up your landlady to ask her if you'd 
got home, and if not we were going to search the 
town for you. There's a fine row over you at the 
office, the city editor raising Cain generally and every 
man blaming every other fellow for allowing you to 
go home alone. Now, I'll go back and tell them 
you're all right, so their minds will be at rest, but 
you mustn't do this again. There's not one of us but 
would consider it a personal insult for you to think 
you had to go home alone." 

He trudged back to the office to report my safety 
to the anxious staff. 



20 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Right here in the midst of writing my memoirs, 
thousands of miles away from the town where the 
Daily Hustler is published, I pause to send greet- 
ing to the members of that staff. God bless them! 
Here's to them, from an American newspaper woman 
to those American newspaper men ! 

The fear of becoming a burden, instead of a valu- 
able acquisition to the staff of the Hustler, was 
ever with me after that first exciting night of my 
home-going; so when my work was done I got into 
the habit of stealing quietly out of the office by 
myself. But I was no longer afraid to walk from 
the office to my home, for I was well looked after by 
my friends, the police officers. The one who had 
first protected me from my fears convinced himself 
that he must always see that I was safely escorted, so 
night after night there sounded the low whistle of 
himself and his brother officers, as I passed from one 
to the other on my homeward route. 

"What is it?" would come the question. 

"The little reporter," would come the answer, and 
always during my stay in that city, I felt it no dis- 
honor and not derogatory to my dignity to be known 
among the police only by that name, — "the little re- 
porter." 

"It's a bad night for ye to be out, little reporter," 
said one of my custodians to me on a night when the 
western winter was at its worst. "It's not fit work 
for a girl like you, this reportin' business — writin' 
up their crazy sociables and describin' the dresses and 
the gimcracks the society folks wear. I've been 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 21 

thinkin' these several nights when I've been takin' 
ye home and protectin' ye like, that ye'd onghter have 
a protector all the time and a good home, and it 
worries me. Now, if ye'll marry me, I'll just see 
that ye don't have no more of this unwomanlike work 
to do." 



22 THE AUTOBIOGEAPHY 



CHAPTER III. 

I GO TO PERU AS A "GIRL-DIPLOMAT." 

I have always thought that my refusal to become 
"Mrs. Policeman" must have been an exceedingly 
tactful one, for though I remained in the western 
town for some months after the police officer so chiv- 
alrously offered me his lifelong protection, he con- 
tinued to be my friend and champion during my 
midnight walks from the office to my boarding house, 
and I never missed his cheery "Good evening little 
reporter!" till I left the city to become what the 
members of the staff were pleased to call a "girl- 
diplomat." This was during the administration of 
President Harrison. 

One day when I was writing my society notes on 
my typewriter I received a letter from a Wisconsin 
editor saying that sometime before he had received a 
letter from me asking for a position on the staff of 
his newspaper. This, I should state, was while I was 
employed in the wholesale grocer's establishment, 
and before I had had my first article published in the 
Daily Hustler. The editor of the Wisconsin paper 
informed me that he had been appointed to go to 
Peru as Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipo- 
tentiary, and he begged to know if I would accept the 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 23 

post of secretary, and I immediately telegraphed 
back "yes." 

Loud and hearty indeed were the congratulations 
showered upon me by my co-workers, and what write- 
ups they gave me, to be sure ! "Our Girl Diplomat !" 
"The Administration Takes the Pick of Our Staff !" 
Thus they headed the columns they published about 
me, along with my photograph. Then many other 
papers, in the East and West and the North and 
South, sounded my fame and praises; so it was with 
a great nourish of newspaper trumpets that I started 
off on my journey to the Land of the Incas, eight 
thousand miles away from home. 

I have since heard that Mr. Blaine, who was then 
Secretary of State in the President's Cabinet, smiled 
dubiously and made a rather discouraging remark 
about what might happen if the United States started 
in for "school-girl diplomacy." He is dead now, and 
I bear him not the least malice. I am sure that I 
never did my country any harm while I was a "diplo- 
mat," though, on the other hand, I have no reason to 
believe that I ever did it any particular good. My 
position, I should here state, was not a strictly "offi- 
cial" one, for I was not to be Secretary of Legation, 
but only "secretary to the Minister." Still, I was 
looked upon somewhat in the light of a heroine and 
I became a sort of nine days' wonder, for I was, I 
believe, the only American woman who had ever been 
employed in a clerical capacity at any of our Lega- 
tions. 

After a three weeks' voyage I arrived in Lima, the 
Peruvian capital, the place which, in the olden time, 



24 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

when Pizarro, its founder, held high carnival with 
the golden plates and goblets of the ill-fated Inca 
King Atahualpa, was given the name of "the City 
of the Kings." 

In a strange-looking house, built of mud, or 
"adobe/' as it was more elegantly called, over the 
portal of which was a shield bearing a picture of the 
American eagle and the inscription "Legacion de los 
Estados Unidos" I took up my residence with the 
members of the American Minister's family, the only 
American girl in that whole large city, and a curios- 
ity, as I soon learned, to all the inhabitants. 

The second day after my arrival there, wishing to 
go to a shop to buy a spool of cotton, I looked in my 
Anglo-Spanish dictionary to find the Spanish term 
for that article. I found it was "algodon" so I wrote 
it down on a slip of paper that I might not forget it, 
and, donning my light covert jacket and gayly- 
trimmed white straw hat, I left the Legation to go 
shopping in a town where I knew but one word of 
the language of its inhabitants — "algodon — cotton 
to sew with." In and out among strange-looking 
women, all wearing a black garment, which draped 
the head, neck, shoulders and hips and fell gracefully 
over the black skirt, I made my way, the one bright- 
looking thing in the somber throng, till, looking back, 
I saw the Jamaican negro major domo of the Lega- 
tion rushing after me, wildly gesticulating and with 
a look of horror on his ebony face. 

"Senorita, Senorita," he cried, in the good Eng- 
lish he had learned as an old servant to previous 
American Ministers. "You must not go to shop 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 25 

alone. His Excellency sent me after you. It is not 
the custom of this country. I will go with you !" 

"Go back ! Go back ! I will not take you out shop- 
ping with me. I'm just going to buy a spool of 
cotton. I know the Spanish word for it. It is 
'algo&onl'" I made this last announcement rather 
proudly, but nevertheless the major domo insisted on 
accompanying me. 

"You cannot go out here without a servant with 
you/' he explained. "The Peruvian ladies, either 
young or old, never do, and if you go out alone the 
Peruvian gentlemen will speak to you." 

"But I will go out. alone in broad daylight," I 
answered. "I'm an American girl and can take care 
of myself, and I won't have anybody tagging round 
after me." 

The head of the domestic staff said nothing in 
reply, and, having bought my "algodon" with him 
standing by my side, I went back to the Legation, 
where, under the outstretched wings of our emblem 
bird, there took place a new Declaration of Inde- 
pendence. 

After that I wandered where I would throughout 
the city. It was at first suggested that I don the 
"manta" the national female garment of Peru, which 
I have already described and which I wore for a day 
or two. But finally I decided this would never do, 
since, robed in that garment, I might be mistaken 
for a Peruvian girl who dared to be unconventional 
and go out alone, in which case the high-caste Peru- 
vian ladies would be horrified and give me a wide 
berth, and the chivalrous Peruvian gentlemen would 



26 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

insult me. Therefore, when I took my walks abroad 
I dressed just as I would have dressed for a morning 
or afternoon stroll in New York or London, and my 
Anglo-Saxon costume proved to be my shield and 
protection. Once, it is true, a Peruvian officer, wear- 
ing his full regimentals, stopped in the street, looked 
at me in astonishment, swept the ground with his 
military hat and said in musical Castilian, "Ah! 
Senorita- bonita!" Now, this form of salutation, 
which I had learned meant in English "Oh! pretty 
girl P was the Peruvian gentleman's method of at- 
tracting the attention of a woman whose acquaint- 
ance he wished to make. I drew myself up haughtily, 
looked him full in the face and said defiantly: — 

"Senorita Americana!" for I had learned the 
Spanish for "American girl." Then, gathering to- 
gether all my spirit and all my Spanish forces, I said 
angrily and rapidly: "Senorita Americana, Legacion 
de los Estados Unidos!" 

I think he understood then that I was a "girl- 
diplomat" at the American Legation, for he sped 
down the street and never after that was I addressed 
in the street by male Peruvians who had not been 
properly introduced to me at the Legation. 

The first few weeks of my experience as a diplomat 
were very disappointing to me, because nothing 
seemed to happen. I had always thought of a diplo- 
matic life as one of exciting experiences where there 
would always be dispatches to send off to the home 
government concerning war or rumors of war, ac- 
counts of double dealings with the heads of the coun- 
try to which one was accredited and a continual 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 27 

plotting and counter-plotting with underhand meth- 
ods and possibly a sort of "secret service." But the 
days went calmly by and I did not seem to be doing 
much in the way of "experiencing things/' the only 
relaxation and change from eating, sleeping and 
doing nothing, which was the Peruvian method of 
spending the time, being the assistance I could render 
the Minister in the daily writing of his diary, which 
we both thought would be interesting for friends and 
relatives in America to read. 

But, as though an attempt were being made to 
"temper the wind to the shorn lamb," just when I 
thought I should actually die of pure ennui, some- 
thing happened. One morning, between five and six, 
I was awakened from my sound sleep by so violent 
a rocking of my bed that I was tumbled out upon the 
floor, from which I hastily tried to rise, rubbing my 
eyes in wonder and terror. From the streets there 
came sounds of terrible groanings and rumblings and 
hoarse cries and shouts as of thousands of people. 

"It's one of those South American revolutions 
which they are always having down here," I thought 
as I dressed myself in short order, though I tumbled 
down and reeled round and round in my excited 
efforts to do so. I was really glad of the revolution, 
because I thought it was going to break up the almost 
unbearable monotony of my diplomatic career. 

Through the door of my bedroom, out into the hall, 
then across the court -yard or patio, as it was called, to 
the Legation offices in the same building, I rushed, 
while up from the streets there rose the cries and 
shouts of the multitude. 

"Save us ! Save us !" came the shrieks in Spanish. 



28 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I doubted not that these cries came from the hapless 
victims who were being mowed down by the soldiery 
and the mob. I felt very sorry for them, but, being 
a diplomat, and apparently the only member of the 
American Legation who was awake, I felt I must do 
my duty. For myself I had no fear. I knew that 
no one would dare to harm those who lived under 
the protecting wings of the American eagle. I threw 
the tin cover off my typewriter on to the floor and 
sitting down began to pound out a dispatch to the 
Washington Department of State, my idea being to 
finish it up and then give it to the Minister to send 
by cable. 

"To the Honorable James G. Blaine, Secretary of 
State, Washington, U. S. A. From the Ameri- 
can Minister in Lima, Peru: — 

"A revolution broke out at five this morning and 
nobody knows what it is about. The streets run with 
blood, the populace cry 'Save us! Save us!' while the 
soldiers run them through with bayonets. The Presi- 
dent of Peru will be beheaded and his head stuck up 
on the top of a pole in front of the Cathedral, as it 
is customary to treat presidents during revolutions. 
All the staff and family of this Legation are safe. 
Will wire you again later" 

Thus ran the first dispatch which I, as a diplomat, 
ever wrote for the Department of State. Just as I 
was pulling it out of my typewriter, loud and excited 
noises were heard in the Legation itself. Then I 
heard a scuffling and a banging of doors and the black 
major domo's voice calling loudly, almost tear- 
fully:- 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 29 

"Senorita! Senorita! Where are you?" 

"Have you searched in every room?" came the 
voice of the Minister. "Surely she cannot have gone 
out on one of those rambles of hers at this time in the 
morning." 

"I have searched in all the house-part, your Excel- 
lency, and she does not go to the Legation rooms until 
eleven o'clock," returned the servant. 

Another scuffling, other shouts, but not from the 
street now; only from the Legation rooms came evi- 
dences of excitement. I started towards the door 
and called out across the court-yard: — 

"I'm all right! Nothing's happened to me, and 
I've got it all ready for you to cable !" 

"What ready ? What cable ?" shouted the Minister 
as he came running around the court-yard accom- 
panied by the scared-looking major domo. 

"The dispatch to Washington about the revolu- 
tion. Please see if it's all right, so we can get it off." 

"What dispatch? What revolution?" exclaimed 
the Minister. "Great Heavens ! has the poor girl 
gone mad?" Then turning to the major domo, he 
asked in a terrified sort of way, "William, do earth- 
quakes send people crazy?" 

"I'm not mad," I said indignantly. "They've 
got a revolution down in the streets and I've written 
a dispatch about it. Haven't we been waiting for 
a revolution these many weeks?" 

"There's an earthquake, Senorita," said the major 
domo, respectfully. 

"An earthquake!" I repeated, half dazed. Then 
I turned to the Minister. 



30 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

"I'm sure there's a revolution, though it's quieter 
now. They always calm down a minute and then 
they break out again. My first intimation of it was 
when my bed rocked and I heard the rumble of the 
cannons. Come here to the window and I'll prove to 
you there's a revolution." 

We looked out of the window. Not a soul was in 
the street, and the Minister began laughing uproari- 
ously as he read my dispatch. 

"It was just an earthquake, Senorita," said the 
major do mo, trying hard to keep a solemn and re- 
spectful look on his face. "When the earthquakes 
come, all the people run into the streets and shout 
and pray, 'Save us!' and when the earthquake goes 
away, they go back to their houses again and go to 
sleep." 

I am sure I was not either bloodthirsty or war- 
loving in my disposition, but my chagrin at discover- 
ing that my "revolution" was nothing but an earth- 
quake was many a day in passing off, and it certainly 
was rather annoying to have the Minister occasionally 
repeat, "The streets run with blood, the populace cry 
'Save us !' while the soldiers run them through with 
bayonets," after which he would shake with laugh- 
ter and declare that being a diplomat in Peru was 
not so devoid of excitement as he had thought. 

The first time I went to church in Lima I noticed 
that I seemed to be the object of a great deal of atten- 
tion from the congregation and that the minds of 
the worshipers were much distracted. However, I 
had become accustomed to creating a sensation 
wherever I went, because I was the only American 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIEL" 31 

girl in the town and also because of my, to them, 
peculiar style of dressing; so I sat down quietly with 
the other women. Suddenly I felt someone meddling 
with my hat and, looking up, I saw a lady with a 
beautiful face and with the finest and most richly 
embroidered manta I had ever seen. She pulled the 
hat-pins from my hat and placed them in my hand, 
then took my hat off and putting it on the seat beside 
me, smiled, patted me on the shoulder, said "Si! Si!" 
and went back to her kneeling stool. I was very 
much astonished at this strange procedure, but I said 
never a word. Indeed, how could I, not knowing 
the language of the country? The service over, I 
left the church, and, still carrying my hat-pins and 
my hat, walked along the pavement towards the Lega- 
tion. 

"Si! Si! Ah! Senorita!" I heard a melodious voice 
say behind me, and with that, the same beautiful lady 
took the hat-pins and hat from my hand, placed my 
hat on my head, pinned it tightly, and patting me 
again on the shoulder, glided away. I afterward 
learned that by going to church wearing a hat I had 
broken one of the strictest rules of Peruvian etiquette, 
and that had it not been known that I was a member 
of the American Legation I might have lost my hat 
altogether. This little incident of the hat was re- 
peated by the Peruvian lady to all her friends, and 
the fact that I had not even attempted to replace my 
hat after I had got outside the church, redounded, it 
seemed, very much to my credit, and I became, in a 
sort of way, what one might term "the fashion." 
Unknown ladies, walking with their servants, passing 



32 THE AUTOBIOGEAPHY 

me on the streets, would take from the bouquets, 
which the servants, never the ladies, carried, wonder- 
ful sprigs of tuberoses and other flowers and smik 
ingly place them in my hand, saying "Sefiorita 
Americana! Si! Si!" forcing them upon me, and then 
bowing, go on their way. 

It was all very sweet and pretty, but this being a 
continual heroine and curiosity to the inhabitants 
palled upon me. I was always finding new barriers 
known as "customs of the country/' over which I 
must leap, if I would not give up my native-born 
independence. 

When I accepted the position of secretary to the 
American Minister, I was not well acquainted with 
him; indeed, I had only seen him once, and that was 
when we drew up our contract. I could not, of 
course, be expected to know anything about his pecu- 
liarities or fads or fancies any more than he could 
know mine, and I had been in Peru only a very few 
days when I came to the conclusion that he certainly 
had a very strange and eccentric way of dictating his 
dispatches and his diary. We only worked two or 
three hours each day, but those hours soon became to 
me times of terror. I had traveled on the same ship 
with the Minister and had noticed nothing peculiar 
about him and I was not prepared for any develop- 
ments of eccentricity when we got started in our 
diplomatic career. 

On the third day after our arrival, there being an 
American mail going out, the Minister sat down to 
go over some dispatches which the First Secretary of 
Legation handed to him. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 33 

"Now, about this note to the State Department — 
Great Scott ! This is enough — " and with that, the 
Minister, red in the face, jumped off his chair like 
an automaton, landed on the floor and began stamp- 
ing with his feet, after which he executed a hornpipe 
dance. 

I stared at him. Was this the way diplomats of 
all nations carried on, or was it a peculiar and dis- 
tinct phase of American diplomacy? Was the Min- 
ister in a temper and had I possibly offended him all 
unwittingly ? 

"I hope I haven't done anything to offend you," 
I said meekly and quietly. 

"No, not a thing!" answered the Minister, doing 
a reversible waltz over towards the window. 

"Can I do anything for you?" I again asked, 
solicitously. 

"No, no, no!" shouted the Minister. "You can't 
do a thing. Nobody can do anything. I wish they 
could!" 

After a polka of the two-step order and a sort of 
a shake-down such as I had seen done at the end of 
a country dance, the Minister seemed to "come to," 
and walking over to his desk, went on with his in- 
structions, quite sanely and pleasantly. 

"You must not mind me when I get to taking on 
like that," he said, smilingly. 

Not mind him! Then my worst fears were con- 
firmed ! He was "not right !" Or, stay. Was he 
subject to fits? Whatever it was, there surely was 
not a very pleasant outlook for me. If it were neither 
madness nor fits, but only a new kind of "eccentric- 



34 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

ity," even then I didn't see how I could stand it if 
he were taken that way often, which, I gathered from 
the way he spoke, must be the case. 

The days passed on, and the poor man was seized 
daily, sometimes hourly, with his strange convulsions. 
At first I thought I would speak to the First Secre- 
tary about it and ask him what was the name of the 
Ministers peculiar physical trouble, but this gentle- 
man, I knew, had not met the Minister till he came 
to Peru, and so could not know any more than I. 
There was the Minister's wife, but it is not etiquette 
to speak of the peculiarities of a man to the members 
of his immediate family. 

Occasionally a day would pass and no symptoms of 
the disease would show themselves, and then I would 
think joyously that perhaps the peculiar air and 
climate of Peru were doing something for my unfor- 
tunate chief, but the next day the jumping and 
stamping and strange, almost profane, exclamations 
would come on again. We would sit down quite 
calmly to work on the "Diary of a Diplomat" when 
suddenly the aforesaid diplomat would topple over 
his ink-bottle, clench his fists, beat his breast, dance 
out into the middle of the floor and then run into 
the room where the First Secretary sat. What puz- 
zled me most was that on such occasions the First 
Secretary laughed long and loudly when the Minister 
descended upon him in these paroxysms, and I called 
it very rude and unkind of the First Secretary to do 
this. As for me, I never laughed. I was too terri- 
fied to do aught but wonder and I sometimes, in my 
heart, blamed the United States Government for 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 35 

sending so very eccentric a gentleman abroad to rep- 
resent his country. 

Things went on like this for about two weeks when 
one day a Peruvian gentleman, one of the great dig- 
nitaries of the state, dropped in, and having been in- 
troduced, I tried to take part in conversation with him 
by means of what little Spanish I had then learned 
and numerous gesticulations. In the midst of the 
conversation up jumped the Minister and began his 
St. Vitus' dance actions. I really thought it was too 
bad he could not have contained himself till the 
Peruvian gentleman had taken his leave. A pretty 
story this statesman would go back and tell at the 
executive mansion! I thought he might get fright- 
ened and leave without ceremony, but to my astonish- 
ment he only smiled slightly and said, "Ah! Pulga!" 

"Si! Si! Pulga!" answered the Minister, giving a 
kick against the desk and then starting off again on 
a prance about the room. The Peruvian gentleman 
began to talk excitedly in Spanish, which I knew the 
Minister did not understand any more than I did, 
and I left the room to call in the Legation interpreter. 

"Pulga! Pulga!" I repeated to myself, "what does 
that mean, and what has that got to do with the 
Minister's peculiar affection?" I repeated it several 
times so as not to forget it while I made my way to 
my room to get my Anglo- Spanish dictionary. Fran- 
tically turning the leaves I finally found the follow- 
ing: "Pulga — a peculiar kind of flea which infests 
South American countries in great numbers and is 
more troublesome to human beings than to animals." 

The poor Minister! I laughed until I cried and 



36 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

then I laughed again, thinking of his antics and his 
evident desire that I should be kept in ignorance of 
the cause. Human fleas! Had they not been the 
bane of my own existence ever since I had landed in 
that terrible country? Had I not talked the matter 
over with the chambermaid and tried all sorts of 
homemade remedies she recommended for the curing 
of their bites? Truly, the Minister was not the only 
member of the family who had suffered and in 
silence, if "silence" his actions could be called! 

This estimable Jamaica negress, later on, told me 
that no foreigner could hope to get rid of fleas or 
become indifferent to their attentions under at the 
least a year's residence in Peru. 

I did not remain the year which was necessary for 
my acclimatization in Peru. Not only the fleas, but 
loneliness and the longing for the companionship of 
girls of my own age who spoke my own language, 
contributed to my unhappiness; for I had not, in 
those days, many resources within my own self. Be- 
sides attending to my secretarial duties I did some 
newspaper correspondence, which included a weekly 
letter to the OsKkosh Northwestern. 

When I ended my career as a "diplomat," I re- 
turned to my native land. Then again I took up 
secretarial duties, this time to an astronomer and 
inventor, but not for long. A journalist I was de- 
termined to be, and when I was offered a position as 
society editor on a Southern paper, I left astronomy 
and invention behind me and traveled to the sunny 
South, again to take up my interrupted career as a 
"newspaper girl." 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 37 



CHAPTER IV. 

INTO THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD OF JOURNALISM. 

Certainly no woman could ever have entered 
upon a journalistic career under pleasanter and more 
encouraging circumstances than did I, as far as my 
first editors and my co-workers were concerned. Just 
as I shall never forget the Western heartiness and 
kindness shown by the men on the staff of the Daily 
Hustler, so shall I always remember the Southern 
thoughtfulness and chivalry that took me in charge 
when I became the only woman member of the staff 
of that Southern paper. The managing editor was 
an ex-confederate colonel who had very exact and 
old-fashioned notions on the subject of "woman's 
sphere/' and he was of a very decided opinion that 
a newspaper office could not possibly be included in 
the said "sphere." Nevertheless, his opinion on that 
subject had been over-ruled by the decision of the 
proprietor that a woman was needed on the paper, 
and he set to work to make my surroundings so alto- 
gether pleasant and agreeable that if I really was 
out of my proper sphere it never occurred to me to 
suspect it. 

The colonel's office was separated from the main 
room, in which worked all the other editors and re- 
porters, by a half -partition. In, this big room, when 



38 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I arrived on the scene, an attempt was made to give 
me a little privacy by boarding off a corner with 
what might be called a "quarter partition," since it 
extended only three or four feet in height. In that 
corner, with a brand-new desk of wonderful manu- 
facture, a revolving chair and some nails in the wall 
in lieu of a hanging cupboard, I was installed as a 
sort of reigning queen. Frequently on a morning 
I would find some new convenience or luxury added 
to the furnishings of my little den, and on inquiring 
the name of the donor, would be informed by the re- 
porters and editors, "Oh, all we fellows clubbed to- 
gether and got it !" It was thus that I was supplied 
with a gilt-framed looking-glass, a tumbler, a foot- 
stool, a box of lead-pencils — all carefully sharpened, 
new-fashioned kinds of blotters, a variegated flower- 
vase, which was always kept filled with flowers, 
apples, big as pumpkins, boxes of candy and an ap- 
paratus for making lemonade in the hot summer- 
time. One morning I arrived to find that my corner 
had been further walled in by the addition of a skill- 
fully twisted wire whereon hung, all unhemmed, a 
rainbow-hued print curtain. This, being placed over 
the partition, made a wall fully six feet high. 

"We fellows did it !" I was informed when I inves- 
tigated the matter, and it turned out that the real 
cause of my barricade was that as the hot Southern 
summer came on, the question of the propriety of 
working in shirt-sleeves with a lady in the office had 
been mooted, and the high print curtain, which would 
prevent my noting this breach of etiquette, was the 
result. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIKL" 39 

Several other newspapers in the town had also 
solitary women reporters on their staffs, and great 
was the rivalry between myself and those other 
women. I had been engaged to do what was known 
as "society and woman's work" on the paper, and my 
constant ambition was to obtain for the page of which 
I had entire charge, "scoops" of various kinds — news 
of events that the women on the other papers would 
be unable to get. It was for the Sunday edition that 
I made especially strong attempts in the "scoop" line, 
and Saturday afternoon and evening was a very busy 
time for me. 

One Saturday I got wind of a great social event 
that was to be expected in the near future. I had 
only a "hint" and no positive information whatever. 
All day long and all the evening up to eleven 
o'clock I chased that "hint," but the people who 
were in the "know" refused me the information, 
one of them going so far as to say: "I don't 
like your paper nor your paper's politics, and 
you must expect no information from me. I have 
told all I know about the affair to the young lady 
who represents the Daily ." 

It was the last straw. Instead of "scooping" the 
other newspaper girls in that town, as was my wont, 
I was going to get "scooped" by one of them on the 
morrow. In a terrible state of excitement I went 
back to my own office, and the city editor, who knew 
of the mission on which I had gone, called out, 
"Hello ! Have you got it ? You'd better hurry up 
writing it, or your page will be late going to press." 

"No, I haven't got it," I cried; "but that isn't 



40 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

the worst, Miss Jackson across the way has got it, 
and she's going to print it in to-morrow's paper and 
I shall be "scooped." 

The terrible word escaped me with a groan, and 
every man in the room turned from his work to look 
at me and take in the meaning of what I said. 
"Scooped, scooped!" I murmured falteringly as I 
passed on to my desk to get my page in form for the 
composing room, and after me there followed like an 
echo the sympathetic voices of the men — "Scooped, 
scooped ! Our girl is going to be scooped by the other 
paper's girl!" 

It was after midnight when I went home, and as 
I jumped into the cab which a thoughtful manage- 
ment provided for me when I was kept late, a little 
knot of the men reporters came rushing down the 
stairs and one of them called out after me : "Say, 
don't you worry about that 'scoop,' because it'll be 
all right. Now, be sure you don't worry." But I 
was not to be comforted and I went sorrowing home 
and to bed, believing that I should awake in the 
morning to find myself "scooped." 

The next morning, in looking over the paper and 
glancing at my own page, I was struck with a certain 
strangeness about its appearance, though I had as 
usual seen a final proof of it before leaving the office. 
I discovered that a special article I had written to 
"fill up space" had been taken out and another article 
was in its place. Who had dared to meddle with my 
own special, particular page, — the page of which I 
alone was the editor? I looked again at the article 
which I had not written — the one which was inserted 



OF A "NEWSPAPEK GIKL" 41 

in the place of one I had written — and, wonder of 
wonders ! I discovered it to be an extended and glow- 
ing account of the great society event, the informa- 
tion which I had striven so hard to obtain ! I wept for 
joy. I was not "scooped" after all, but how in the 
world had that article got there? 

I did not do Sunday work, but I could not resist 
the temptation to go to the office that night to in- 
quire about the wonderful thing that had happened. 
At the office door stood the very coterie of reporters 
who had cautioned me "not to worry" when I got 
into the cab the night before. They were apparently 
enjoying a tremendous joke, for they were laughing 
uproariously. 

"Who did it? Who got the information? Who 
put it on my page?" I exclaimed breathlessly. 

"We fellows did it," they replied in unison. "There 
were five of us had a hand in it, for it was terribly 
late and we had to get it into press in short order, so 
maybe it sounded like patch-work, but it was all 
there, just the same, and you didn't get scooped." 

"But how did you get the information? Did the 
man that refused to tell me tell you?" I asked. 

"Oh, no! Oh, no! We didn't have time to fool 
around much. We just went and took it." 

"Took it !" I repeated, bewildered. 

"Yes. Didn't you say they had it over at the 
other newspaper office ? Well, we took it." 

"You mean you took Miss Jackson's manuscript — 
stole it from her, and printed what she wrote on my 
page and she hasn't got it in her own paper at all?" 

"No, Miss Jackson's got it in her paper, and what's 



42 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

in your page, isn't written like hers a bit, but the 
facts are all there." 

That was all the information I was ever able to 
obtain from the chivalrous young Southern men who 
had come to my assistance and kept me from getting 
"scooped." I was never let into the secret, but I 
have always been of the opinion that they in some 
way made a raid on the composing room of the rival 
paper, got their information by word of mouth from 
one of the printers, who suspected nothing, and thus 
saved me from what I should have felt was disgrace. 
As I have said, I am not sure just how "we fellows 
did it," but if, as I suspect, they used some method 
which might have been the least little bit underhand, 
I hope the recording angel has neglected to note down 
in his book that part of the proceeding. 

There were no hard and fast rules laid down for 
me as regarded the office hours. I was told that I 
might come and go as I liked, as long as my work was 
done in time. Such privileges in a newspaper office 
have, I am sorry to admit, a tendency to spoil a 
woman, and I was no exception to the rule. Once 
when I had got my report of a certain women's 
meeting which I was to write up, I stopped in at a 
theater instead of returning directly to the office, 
with the result that my "copy" was very late in reach- 
ing the city editor's desk and the first edition of the 
paper was late in coming out. Now, that city editor 
was a Northern man, and straightway he went to the 
managing editor with the suggestion that I be ad- 
monished to work first and play afterwards. Over 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL 5 ' 43 

the partition came the sound of his indignant voice 
saying, "In some ways she ought to be treated the 
same as the men. Now, don't you think so ?" whereat 
the doughty Southern colonel replied: — 

"See here ! I wasn't the one who started this 
female journalism racket on this paper. I never 
approved of having a woman on the paper, but the 
rest of you wanted a woman, as you said, to do wom- 
an's work, and now you've got her I guess you'll have 
to put up with any little fads and fancies and short- 
comings she may have ! I never knew of a newspaper 
office that wasn't upset with a solitary woman in it. 
Where they keep a couple of dozen, as they do in 
Chicago and New York, it's different, but one 
woman's bound to get spoiled in an office of men." 

The next day I said to the colonel, "I couldn't help 
hearing what you and the city editor said yesterday. 
Hereafter you are to treat me just like a man, else 
I'll resign." 

"All right! So be it!" was his laconic reply. 

A day or two afterwards when a thunder storm 
was raging and I had crawled under my desk for 
safety from the lightning, I was bidden to the man- 
aging editor's office. There sat that chivalrous 
Southern gentleman on the only chair in the room, 
his hat on the back of his head, a cigar in his mouth, 
his feet on the table. 

"I want you to go out at once and report that 
three o'clock meeting at the Methodist church," he 
said, without so much as removing his cigar or low- 
ering his feet. 

"But how can I?" I objected. "It's thundering 



44 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

and lightning and the rain is like a torrent. Why 

can't one of the men go?" 

"Because I tell you to go !" was his answer. 

I stood speechless in my surprise, for I was his 
subordinate and he was my chief. 

"How do you like it — being treated like a man?" 
he suddenly asked, a grim smile illuminating his 
face. 

"I don't like it at all," I confessed. 

"I thought you wouldn't. Now, you may go to 
your corner and get under your desk till the light- 
ning stops. I suppose we shall have to put up with 
that along with other fads and fancies. I'll send one 
of the men to do this woman's temperance meeting, 
though, as you know," he added half banteringly, 
"it's a part of your regular work to attend to the 
women's meetings." 

So I was restored to my former happy state of 
mind, but the incident taught me a lesson. I had 
conscience enough to know that the city editor was 
right in his suggestion that work should come before 
play, and I was never again late with my "copy." 
When material for my woman's page was scarce, I 
begged the city editor, who was one of the most enter- 
prising of journalists, to put me on to other and 
broader kinds of work, so that I might be able to deal 
with subjects other than those of interest to women 
only. So I was frequently asked to do "specials" for 
the news department, such as the writing up of 
political meetings, and then I was sometimes sent 
over to Washington for a day, to take a look at the 
lawmakers of my country and examine into their 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 45 

ways. I began to do interviewing, and thus I got 
just a little peep into the wide, wide world of jour- 
nalism. 

That "peep" was the beginning of ambitions and 
also the beginning of sorrows. When I ceased to be 
merely the editor of the woman's page and started to 
become what might be fitly described as a "general" 
in newspaper work, my experience was very like that 
of a girl who suddenly goes out from the shelter of 
home and into the world to fight her own battles. 
Up to then, the "angels" into whose charge I had 
been committed away out in Wisconsin, had always 
seemed to be about and around me to help me over 
the stones. Now, I elected to walk alone, for whither 
I went they could not always follow. 

One day a stranger entered the office, and, seeing 
me in my corner, said, "Ah ! I see you've got a lady 
editor in your office !" 

"Well, yes," responded the city editor, "but besides 
being the lady editor, she's one of the best all-round 
reporters I've got on my staff." 

It could not have been half an hour after that 
remark was made, when the city editor came over to 
me, with the air of having an important commission 
for me. 

"I've got a fine thing for you," said he, "if you can 
pull it through." 

Then he explained that a certain well-known ac- 
tress, who had appeared in a play the night before 
at one of the theaters, had suddenly forgotten her 
part, put her hand to her head and gone off the stage, 
as though in a dream. The play was almost brought 



46 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

to a standstill, but her understudy had managed to 
take her place till the fall of the curtain. It was 
thought the actress was intoxicated. In former days 
she had been an American society leader and had got 
stage struck. When she had given up her home for 
the foot-lights a very disagreeable scandal had fol- 
lowed her. 

"Now/' continued the city editor, "I've sent four 
different men to see that woman to-day, trying to get 
an interview and her version of last night's affair on 
the stage, but she sends down word she's ill and con- 
fined to her room and unable to see anyone. But I 
believe she'd see you, because you're a woman and 
can go right up to her room. Go and interview her. 
It'll be a great story, and we'll even scoop the New 
York papers. Find out if she was drunk last night. 
Find out everything you can from her. Make a big 
special of it. You can have all the space you want. 
If you manage it — well, I'll just say you won't be 
sorry you tried to please me." 

In fifteen minutes I made my way to the hotel 
where the actress was stopping, sent up my card and 
was admitted to her bedroom. So beautiful had been 
the pictures I had seen of this woman, that the wan, 
thin face, actually ugly from dissipation, that looked 
up at me from among the pillows, gave me a most 
disagreeable start. 

"I'm glad a woman has come to me at last," she 
said, as she tossed her head from side to side. "I'm 
in disgrace, alone, forsaken, even by my own parents. 
I've made a mess of my life. Listen, and I'll tell 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 47 

you how I did it and about last night at the theater 
too." 

Then, without my having asked her a single ques- 
tion, the woman poured into my astonished ears a 
story of such pathos and horror as made me start 
back and cry: "Hush! hush! Don't talk to me any 
more. You will be sorry to-morrow; but then it will 
be too late." 

"No ! I shall not be sorry/' she exclaimed, "I must 
talk or I shall lose my reason. I must tell some one 
of my troubles. Your face does not look hard and 
cold. Though you are a stranger, something tells 
me you are my friend." 

"I am a newspaper reporter," I said simply. 
"You knew it from my card, and I told you I had 
come from a newspaper as soon as I got to your 
room." 

The woman rose up on her elbows. Her yellow 
hair lay scattered over the pillows, and with her 
bloodshot eyes gazing intently into my face and 
clutching my hands tightly in her own, she ex- 
claimed : — 

"Yes ! Yes ! I knew you were a reporter, but you 
are also a woman and I know you will not write a 
word of what I have told you. I have told you my 
story in confidence, and you will keep it." 

"No ! No ! Not that ! Not in confidence !" I cried, 
trying vainly to snatch my hands from her grasp 
that was now like iron. "You have talked not to 
me, but to my paper. Oh, you knew it, you knew 
it. I must print it. I am helpless to keep it out. 
Why, I'm a woman with a living to earn. I have no 



48 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

one in all the world but myself to depend on. I 
must do what my editor tells me. He has sent me 
to get an interview with you, and you have given it 
to me. I owe a duty to him, to my paper. It would 
be cheating to hold it back." 

The woman's eyes burned into me, her nails dug 
into the palms of my hands as she tightened her 
grasp. She had told me, of her own free will, a 
story for my newspaper, a story for other newspapers, 
a plot for a novel, and now she said, "I have told you 
in confidence and you will keep it !" I thought of 
my city editor, waiting at the office for my return. 
I could see him smile the "Well done, good and faith- 
ful servant" smile upon me when I should walk in 
and stop at his desk to say: "Yes, I've got a great 
story from her ! She talked and told me everything \" 
This woman, who clutched my wrists so hard and 
said to me, "You will keep it !" who was she, that she 
should cheat me out of what was mine, should block 
the way to my future success, should hurt me in the 
beginning of my newspaper career ? An outcast ! A 
woman disgraced and spurned and disowned ! 

"Let me go ! Let me go ! You talked to a reporter, 
knowing she was a reporter. Now take the conse- 
quences !" I made another effort and got my hands 
free from her while she sank exhausted on the bed. 
"I must go now," I continued; "I am sorry I cannot 
see things the way you seem to see them. I am a 
working woman, with a hard struggle before me. 
When my editor tells me to do a thing I have no 
choice but to obey. The world is very hard on 
women. I'm sorry for you." 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 49 

I was turning the handle of the door. "Come 
back, just one minute/' said the woman. "I will not 
touch you, I won't take your hands again." 

"You said just now that the world was hard on 
women. So it is. And women are also very hard on 
women. I've kid more experience than you have 
had. I know the world. Let me tell you that very 
seldom has a woman gone to destruction but another 
woman has had a hand in sending her there. By 
printing what I have said to you this afternoon, you 
will ruin me." 

"You are ruined already," I said doggedly, "1 
cannot hurt you." 

"You will send me to hell and others with me. 
You will make my name a by- word in the gutters. 
By making a public character of me again you will 
bring renewed shame to my parents. You will make 
my little sister, who has all her beautiful life before 
her, hang her head in the presence of all her 
companions. I say you will do this. I mean that 
you can do it. Are you going to do it? Tell me, 
are you going to do it?" 

"I will not do it," I said. My hands fell limply 
at my side and I stood transfixed. "I will not print 
a word you have told me, now or ever. I promise." 
The woman had conquered. 

"You have promised! Oh, you have promised!" 
she exclaimed, a glad look flooding her poor, thin 
face. "Will you promise me something else?" 

"Perhaps," I answered. I was crying now. I 
r was not a journalist. I was only a woman. 

"Promise me that in your work, as long as you live, 



50 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

yon will never try to get fame or money by writing 
things that will hnrt women like me. Promise that 
you will never for the sake of your own success tread 
on another woman and try to crush her." 

"I promise !" I answered simply. Then I slipped 
out and closed the door. Once outside the stifling 
air of the room and away from the woman's presence, 
a strange, unaccountable feeling of terror took pos- 
session of me. I seemed to have bound myself in 
chains of iron and when I reached the street I gave 
myself a shake, under the impression that perhaps 
the fresh air and the blue sky and the sunlight would 
make them drop from me ; but the chains still seemed 
to bind me. What had I done? I had entered into 
a compact which, at that moment it seemed to me, 
would be a sort of mortgage on my whole future life. 
I had promised always to refrain from writing any- 
thing that would hurt women like the one I had been 
talking to. I promised never to crush any other 
woman in my climbing of the ladder to success. 
Again I shook myself, but the chains still clung, and, 
thinking that I could really hear them clatter as I 
walked along the street, I returned to the office. 

I passed*by the city editor's desk. "Hello ! It took 
a long time !" he exclaimed. "Did she talk ?" 

"Yes," I answered, "she talked a great deal, but 
I promised her I would not write a word she said." 

He jumped from his chair, an angry light in his 
eyes. "You promised ! What do you mean ? Have 
you a story, the story I sent you after, and do yon 
say you will not write it?" 

"That's it, yes," I answered. "She forgot I was 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 51 

a reporter and told me everything, and then I 
promised I would not write it." 

His face grew first red, then white. He was angry 
and justly so, but he made a tremendous effort to 
control himself. "If you were a man," he said, 
quietly, "I would dismiss you from the staff instantly 
for rank disregard of the interests of your paper. As 
you are a woman, I will say that you have not the 
journalistic instinct. You will never be able to do 
big things in journalism. You can edit your own 
page, but you'll never be a really successful jour- 
nalist. The fact is, you're all woman and no jour- 
nalist." 

I remained on the Southern paper for some time 
after that and attended conscientiously to my 
woman's page. The city editor grew friendly again, 
but he gave me no more "special features" to do, for 
"special features" could only be worked up by "real 
live journalists," as he frequently explained to me. 

One day I went into the managing editor's room 
and said to him, "I am going to London." 

The colonel looked up from the editorial he was 
writing. 

"You will starve in London !" he said. 

Then I came to London. 



52 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 



CHAPTER V. 

IN LONDON TOWN. 
MY ARRIVAL, MY DOG, MY FLAT. AND DINAH. 

I arrived in London with four hundred dollars, 
my typewriter and my dog. 

I have not referred to my dog before, because it 
did not seem necessary; but now he must take his 
proper place, which is a large one, in my reminis- 
cences. I cannot even begin to tell about the flat 
and Dinah unless I first tell about Judge, for it was 
on his account that I took them both. He and I 
became great friends and pals some time before I 
came to London. He came to me on a very dark 
night to keep me from getting too lonely and think- 
ing too much about myself, indeed, to save me from 
myself. 

Judge is a beautiful black French poodle, not of 
the "stringy" variety, but covered with silky curls, 
and nearly as large as a Newfoundland. In the win- 
ter he goes unshaven, but in the summer I have him 
clipped to keep him from suffering with the heat. He 
usually wears a necktie of blue or pink or yellow. 
He is even more clever than the majority of French 
poodles are known to be ; he is a dog of some literary 
ability, and knows the difference between the various 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 53 

London newspapers. If I have left the London 
Star or The Times on a chair or the floor together, 
I have only to say, "Judge, go and bring me The 
Times/' and he does it; or, if I want the Star, 
I have but to tell him so. Some of my friends, 
however, insist that he distinguishes only on account 
of the difference in weight. 

It was very expensive for me to bring Judge to 
London and keep him here for the first few days. 
He occupied the stateroom with me on the ship, and 
I got an extra steamer chair for him on deck. All 
this was, of course, against the rules and regulations 
of the ship, but there is no law or rule in existence 
that I would not break for Judge's sweet sake. 

On the ship I kept him covered with an Astrakhan 
cape when the officers passed our steamer chairs, and 
when they would take a notion to come over and talk 
with me, though I was always in terror lest the cape 
should get too animated, I gave them my best smiles 
and compliments. Once when the captain made a 
remark about none being so blind as those who would 
not see, I found myself wondering if this gruff-look- 
ing seaman were a typical middle-aged Englishman, 
so susceptible to smiles and flattery and so thoroughly 
"manageable" was he. Without definitely commit- 
ting myself right here, I will say, after a larger and 
longer experience than I then had of middle-aged 
Englishmen, that he was not exactly what I would 
call im-typical. 

The English ship servants were also very manage- 
able and blind, — the effect of a mixture of smiles and 
sixpences. So were the railway guards of the train 



54 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

that brought me up to London. So were they at the 
hotel — the very, very expensive hotel, where the cab- 
man took me. 

"We don't allow dogs/' said the manager. 

"No, I know you don't," I answered, "but from my 
experience on an English ship and an English rail- 
way I find you have a delightful system over here of 
making all sorts of rules and regulations, and then 
not seeing the people who break them. I must say 
I do think Englishmen are very nice and kind to 
American women traveling in their country. Now, 
how much would you charge a day for not seeing my 
dog, if I'm very careful of him and don't allow any- 
body to be troubled with him? I shall take all my 
meals in my own room and take him out wherever 
I go." 

"We really don't want dogs. We don't allow them. 
But we will charge fifteen shillings extra a day not 
to see your dog." 

"Oh, Judge, Judge !" I cried, when we had got up 
to our room. "Four hundred dollars in our inside 
pocket, and fifteen shillings a day for you, to say 
nothing about me and my expenses ! We can't stand 
this, do you hear? The first thing to-morrow morn- 
ing we must go out and take a walk and see what 
turns up." 

So in the morning we both went out for a walk on 
Regent street and something did turn up. It was 
Dinah. After Dinah came the flat, and after that 
the deluge — but that belongs not to this but to 
another chapter. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 55 

Judge was wearing a necktie of American flag 
ribbon. 

"Oh, my! Yo' niggah dog, an' from Ameriky, I 
do 'clare! Come heah, honey, an' let ole Dinah pat 
yo'head!" 

I felt a jerk of the chain by which I held Judge, 
and turning, beheld, there on Regent street, the 
United States of America in the shape of a stout, 
middle-aged negro woman showering pats and en- 
dearments on the head of my dog. 

" 'Scuse me, ma'am, but I knowed he was from my 
country by de ribbon bow, an' so's yo', ain't yo', 
honey ?" 

"Yes, I am," I answered, "and I'd know you were 
from there, too. How in the world did y&u get 
here?" 

"It's not a question ob how I come, but how I'se 
to git away from heah ! If I could only git back to 
ole Baltimoah, I'd neber ask anyt'ing agin ob de 
good Lord! I'm Dinah Mooh, from Baltimoah, 
ma'am." 

Now, though I myself had once lived in Baltimore, 
I had never had the pleasure of Dinah Moore's ac- 
quaintance; but I found she had been in service with 
people I knew, so I considered her properly intro- 
duced. I wanted a place where Judge could take a 
run without his chain and get a taste of London 
grass, and Dinah conducted me back to Piccadilly 
and then to Hyde Park, where we both sat down, 
while Judge joyously kicked up his heels. 

Dinah told me all about herself. It seemed she 
had come to London a few months before with an 



56 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

American lady, in whose family she had once been 
a servant. The lady had taken a small flat, fur- 
nished it and set np housekeeping with Dinah as 
maid of all work. Now the lady was ill and poor. 
She wanted to get rid of her flat and the furniture 
and go to Germany to some relations. If she could 
sublet the flat and sell the furniture, she could pay 
Dinah's wages and her second-class passage back to 
America, since she could not take her to Germany 
with her. But, as Dinah said, "she didn't seem to 
hab no luck." 

"Is it very expensive?" I asked. 

"No, ma'am," answered Dinah. "I reckon Mis' 
Saxon 'ud sell de furniture fer a hundred an' fifty 
dollars an' de flat rents fer what dey calls sixty 
poun's a year, an' I heah her say yo' don't hab to 
keep it on moah dan six months longah." 

I made a quick calculation and found I could get 
flat-rent for about six dollars a week. It seemed very 
cheap to me compared even with what I was paying 
for Judge's right to exist in London. 

"Dinah Moore," I said, "we're strangers, but we're 
both from the same country and must take each other 
on trust. I'll buy the furniture and rent that flat if 
you'll live with me and do my work and take the very 
best care of my dog. I'm a poor American girl and 
it'll take nearly half of all the money I have in the 
world to buy that furniture, but I've got to have a 
home and live as cheaply as possible. Now, will you 
come for say two dollars and a half a week as wages ?" 

"Yes, I'll come, ma'am ! What's yo' name, please ?" 

I properly introduced myself, but when we went to 



OF A "NEWSPAPEK GIKL" 57 

housekeeping together, Dinah, happening to see a 
newspaper letter of mine signed "Polly Pollock," 
took a great fancy to it and from that time after- 
wards she always addressed me as "Miss Polly," de- 
claring it was more homelike and reminded her of 
the young ladies of the family she used to live with 
in "Baltimoah." 

Within three days of my arrival in London, I 
moved into the flat, and did my best to make it look 
as American as possible, using the Stars and Stripes 
for a couch cover, and hanging a picture of George 
Washington over my writing desk. With Dinah to 
keep Judge company while I was out, I was able to 
go about by myself to see the Tower of London, St. 
Paul's, Madame Tussaud's, Westminster Abbey, and 
then I thought I knew all about England. I de- 
scribed my first "impressions" for several American 
papers, and in that way earned enough money to keep 
the flat going. Dinah and I lived together in per- 
fect harmony. She would do anything in the world 
for me except to put on a cap I had bought her, with 
long, wide streamers, such as I had seen the London 
servants wear. I begged her only to try it on, but 
she refused on the ground that it was both un-Ameri- 
can and unbecoming. Dinah, even after living in 
England ten months, was the most American Ameri- 
can I ever knew. She never hesitated to air her 
hatred of England and its backwardness to the 
tradespeople and the boys who delivered goods at the 
flat, they being the only people outside the "f ambly," 
as she denominated ourselves, with whom she had an 
opportunity to talk. So things went on till Christ- 



58 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

mas, the first Christmas that either of us had ever 
spent in England. 

The day after Christmas I went on top of an omni- 
bus and remained out nearly all day getting notes 
for a special American letter I was writing. When 
I returned late in the afternoon I knew something 
had happened. Dinah and Judge were in a terrific 
state of excitement. There was a sound of barking 
and growling from Judge and whenever there came 
a lull in it Dinah would clap her hands and say, "Sic 
'em, darlin' ! Sic 'em an' skeer 'em off !" 

I burst into the flat with my latchkey and tum- 
bled over Dinah's trunk, all strapped, as if ready for 
traveling. 

"Dinah, Dinah! What's the matter? Whose 
trunk is this? Why are you making Judge bark? 
We'll be put out of the flat !" I exclaimed, as I picked 
myself up off the floor. 

Dinah appeared with her sleeves rolled up, her 
bandanna cap tilted to one side, her big black eyes 
showing fire. 

"Mattah! mattah!" she returned, stamping her 
foot on the carpet, "Fse goin' back to 'Meriky dis 
werry day! I neber did b'leeve in monarkshal gov- 
ernments ! I neber did 'prove ob dis yere country, 
as I hab often told yo', Miss Polly, but now I'se had 
'nuff — yes, plenty 'nuff, an' I done wash my han's 
obit all!" 

"But what is it? What's happened?" I asked, be- 
wildered. 

"What's happened! Why, I'se been insulted, an' 
I neber was used to it. I'm 'cused ob keepin' people's 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIKL" 59 

things what doesn't b'long to me, an' I ain't goin' to 
stan' it nohow!" 

"Oh, Dinah, you must be crazy, for I never accused 
you of anything!" 

"No, not yo', Miss Polly. It's other people what's 
been comin' heah dis afternoon." 

"Now, Dinah," said I finally, "if you are not crazy, 
tell me what you mean. Who's been here? Who's 
accused you and what did they accuse you of?" 

Dinah got out her handkerchief and, fanning her- 
self with it, began: "W T ell, Miss Polly, soon as yo' 
lef dis afternoon, de doah sounded wid de rat-tat 
what means de pos'man. I opens de doah, an' he 
says kinder saucy, 'Has yo' got my Chris'mas box?' 
'Why, no,' I says, 'I hasn't got it ! How should I hab 
it ? I didn't know as we carries on a express office in 
dis yere flat. I reckon yo' be off yo' base.' Then 
he says, 'I specs yo' missus has got it. Is she in?' 
'No, she hain't in,' I says, 'an' she hain't got no box 
o' yourn neither,' says I. Den as I slammed de doah 
on him, he jes' grinned and 'lowed he stop again this 
ebenin' or to-morrer mornin' cause he knowed yo' 
had it. 

"Then, Miss Polly, he hadn't been gone so much as 
ten minutes, when I see de baker's boy an' I asks what 
fer he come so late wid de bread. 'I didn't bring no 
bread,' says he, 'I come fer my Christmas box!' I 
was dat mad, thinkin' de pos'man had sent him round 
to bother me, dat I gave him one hard slap on de 
face he'll 'member awhile, an' pushed him out 
de do' befo' I thought what 1 was doin\ Well, 
honey, in about half a hour de laundryman come 



60 THE AUTOBIOGBAPHY 

an' says, 'Ain't yo' got my Chris'mas box?' Says I, 
'No, I hain't ! Go 'long wid ye ! Did dat debil ob a 
pos'man send yo' heah, too?' Dat's de way I an- 
swered him, an' I tol' him not to dare show his ugly 
face here again f er our washin' work ! De las' thing 
I heard as he went away was dat he'd 'form yo' of my 
'havior ! 

"An' he wasn't de las' ob dem imps. De milkman 
an' de paper boy was bof heah sayin', 'Has yo' got my 
Chris'mas box?' an' a man which say he was licensed 
to sweep de street, come too, askin' me to give him 
his box, an^ de fust thing I knows ef I stays here I'll 
be in a court house an' arrested fer something I neber 
done, so I'se goin' home, an' ef yo' knows what's safe, 
yo'll come, too, Miss Polly !" 

Before I had time to collect my senses and come 
to any reasonable comprehension of Dinah's remark- 
able tale, a double rat-tat at the door was heard and 
she started off to get what I supposed might be a 
telegram clearing up the mystery. I heard the word 
"box," and then came the sound of Dinah's voice : — 

"Yo' imperent rascal! What yo' mean, comin' 
here insultin' me an' my missus ? Does I look like a 
forwardin' agency, carryin' on a Chris'mas-box busi- 
ness? Is we delegated to run a express office? De 
only box I'se got fer yo' is a box on de ears !" 

I rushed to the hall to find a little telegraph boy 
in the arms of Dinah, getting such a shaking as he 
must have remembered for a long time. Before I 
could interpose, she had pushed him out, banged the 
door after him, and gone back to the kitchen, using 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 61 

such a string of negro epithets as I had never heard 
before. 

What it was all about, I could not understand. I 
knew nothing more about the boxes than did Dinah. 
I thought at first that perhaps an express company 
had once occupied the flat, and then I concluded that 
some one was playing a practical joke on poor old 
Dinah. Then the knocker sounded again, and it was 
with the greatest difficulty that I prevailed upon 
Dinah to go to the door. Immediately there came 
a blood-curdling cry, and Dinah tumbled back into 
the sitting room, screaming: — 

"Oh, Lor', it's the policeman, Miss Polly, says he's 
after dat box ! They'll put us in one ob dem prisons 
when we's innocent, like Mis' Maybrick, 'cause we's 
'Mericans !" 

By this time I, too, was thoroughly frightened, 
even with all my consciousness of innocence, but 
thinking it well to be as calm as possible in an emer- 
gency, I marched bravely into the hall, with Judge 
following me. The policeman from the corner — the 
one who had always been so polite to me and Judge, 
who held up his hand many times a day to keep me 
from getting run over — stood there, half smiling, 
half embarrassed. 

"I have called for a Christmas box, please, Miss, or 
rather you know about the policemen's ball. You 
see, Miss " 

"No, I don't see!" I interrupted. "We haven't 
anybody's box, nor anybody's ball, either! My serv- 
ant says a dozen persons have been calling here this 



62 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

afternoon asking about some box they said she had. 
Will you please clear up this mystery for me ?" 

"Why, Miss, didn't you know this was Boxing 
Day?" asked the policeman. 

"Boxing Day I" I repeated. "I never heard of such 
a day. Is it a day similar to our April fool day?" 
I was suddenly enlightened. Yes, the day after 
Christmas was England's silly day, when practical 
jokes were played on people, especially unsuspecting 
and uninitiated Americans. 

But the policeman further enlightened me, ex- 
plaining the full meaning of Boxing Day, the reason 
of poor Dinah's misunderstanding, and he also told 
me that he had some tickets for a policemen's ball 
that he would leave with me to be paid for when I 
had the change handy. Then he departed, and I 
went to the kitchen to explain to Dinah the reason 
for the strange happenings of the day. She unpacked 
her trunk, meanwhile expressing her opinion of 
English as spoken in England: — 

"If dey wants money, .why doesn't dey say so, or 
why doesn't dey say dey wants a present? How is 
I to know a Chris'mas box means a shillin' or 
fi'pence ? In 'Meriky a Chris'mas box is a box which 
comes by express. It ain't money, nohow. An' 
they's nothin' but beggahs to ask fer presents. In 
'Meriky dese w'ite trash is given a dollah or so on 
New Year's day w'en dey comes 'bout reg'lar busi- 
ness, an' dey don't need to ask, but heah dey takes 
time by de fo'lock an' fly to de doah. It's de fust time 
I eber see anybody hurry in dis country. My ! Dey 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 63 

does rush when dey wants a Chris'mas box, sho' 
'nufi!" 

After the Boxing Day episode, we again settled 
down in tranquillity for a while. 

Then I thought I would try to write for the Eng- 
lish papers. I could see no reason why I shouldn't 
do my humble part towards lightening the burden 
they seemed to be carrying. I bought a lot of Lon- 
don newspapers aiid, in Dinah's vernacular, I 
"hefted" them, one by one. Then I tossed off a light 
and airy production on my typewriter, and, selecting 
the heaviest paper, sent there my maiden effort. Two 
days later it appeared in print and shortly afterwards 
I got a check. I did not know then, as I do now, 
that, in that editorial stronghold, the audacity of an 
American girl in daring to attack it had so amused 
the editors that they decided to let me in. 

That first success gave me an unlimited amount of 
confidence. I proceeded to call on several of the 
London editors. I had a sort of triumphal progress 
from one office to another. Not a single editor re- 
fused to see me. I was very much surprised to find 
them all so pleasant and chatty. I thought them 
much nicer than any American editors I had ever 
met. They all shook hands with me in the most 
friendly fashion, and one of them accepted a subject 
right off when I told him some of my ideas for 
articles. 

At first I was rather taken aback when on my say- 
ing, "Good morning, I'd like to do some work for 
you. You see, I'm an American," each individual 
editor laughed very heartily while shaking hands 



64 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

with me ; but I got accustomed to that' habit of theirs, 
and it was not till a long time afterwards that I sus- 
pected why they had laughed when I said, "You see, 
I'm an American." 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 65 



CHAPTER VI. 

WHEN I BEGAN TO STARVE IN LONDON. 

I have a conscientious objection to fulfilling peo- 
ple's prophecies about myself, when they take it upon 
themselves to foretell unpleasant happenings. 

When I was a freckle-faced, red-headed little girl 
in Wisconsin, I remember that one of our neighbors, 
a Methodist deacon, calling at my home and witness- 
ing an exhibition of the fact that I had a temper to 
correspond with my hair, put his hand upon my fiery 
locks, and said portentously : — 

"This child will come to some bad end!". 

"That's a story-lie !" I retorted, hotly, shaking 
my mane free from his hand and eyeing him defi- 
antly, "I won't ! I won't !" 

I have a very keen and lively recollection of the 
shock and commotion which thereupon ensued upon 
my showing "such behavior before company"; of 
the early supper that was hastily provided for me, 
of being escorted to bed ere the sun had gone down, 
and how I added a rider to my evening prayer : — 

"God bless me and make me a good girl," I prayed 
fervently, "just to spite old Deacon Jones!" 

When I had lived in London several months, I 
woke up one summer morning with another prophecy 



66 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

that had been made concerning me ringing in my 
ears : "You will starve in London !" 

It was the half-pitying, half-threatening prophecy 
made by the colonel, when less than a year before I 
had walked into the managing editor's office and sud- 
denly informed him that I was going to London. 

I had just twopence, half penny, that morning 
when I so vividly recalled the colonel's prophecy. It 
was all the money I had in the world and I could 
see no prospect of getting any more. How I finally 
got down to a beggarly "tuppence ha'penny" wouH 
make too long a story. Suffice it to say that, doing 
the best I could, I had spent what money I had 
brought with me and all that I had earned and had 
mortgaged the furniture of the flat besides, and that 
every day I was having a headache, the kind of head- 
ache that comes from irregularity in the matter of 
meals. Then on that particular morning I suddenly 
remembered that it had been prophesied I would 
starve in London; so while I brushed my hair — that 
had grown darker to match the temper that had 
become calmer during the years that had intervened 
since Deacon Jones, all unwittingly, had started me 
out in life with a very good weapon against its pit- 
falls — I determined that it should fare with the 
prophecy of my dear good friend, the colonel, as it 
had fared with my old-time enemy, the deacon, and 
as I looked at myself in the mirror of my dressing- 
table I exclaimed: — 

"That, too, shall be a lie! I will not starve in 
London !" 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 67 

The sun came streaming through my bedroom 
window, with its pretty white dimity curtains, tied 
back with blue ribbons. There, on an easy chair, 
sunning himself, watching the people and traffic in 
the street below, sat Judge, my dog, a golden crown 
of light upon his shaggy head, a highly-polished 
silver collar round his neck, topped by a huge bow 
of yellow ribbon. On a chair beside him lay the half 
of a puppy-biscuit. On the floor, with towel for 
tablecloth, were a saucer of milk and a bone, with 
gristle and meat on both ends of it, by which signs 
I knew that Judge had eaten what breakfast he 
wanted and was not hungry. I thanked God for 
that. If I had ever suspected Judge of being hun- 
gry, I might have been capable of going into the 
street and knocking down any little butcher's boy 
who refused peaceably to deliver up to me the con- 
tents of his wooden meat-trough; or, failing that, I 
might have attempted to forge a check or have com- 
mitted any other crime which seemed to promise 
something for Judge to eat. 

About ten o'clock that morning, I put on my hat 
and fastening Judge's chain to his collar, I called out 
to Dinah: — 

"Good-by, Dinah; Judge and I are going out for 
a walk." 

As I went out of the flat door, there came from 
the kitchen sounds of scrubbing and the scouring of 
tins, and Dinah's singing, in her sweet, melodious 
voice, an old-time darky camp-meeting tune: — 



68 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Oh! de Judgmen' Day am rollin' roun', 

Rollin', yes, a-rollin'; 
I hear de trumpet's awful soun', 

Rollin', yes, a-rollin'! 
Oh! Some seeks de Lawd, but dey don't seek him right, 

Rollin', yes, a-rollin'! 
Dey prays in de daytime, but not in de night, 

Rollin', yes, a-rollin'!" 

I laughed as I shut the door on Dinah and her 
ecstasy. I had managed my experience of hard-up- 
ed-ness very well indeed, so far, and had tactfully 
kept the state of my finances from Dinah. How I 
was to continue the deception longer I did not know, 
but I had an abiding faith that there must be some 
way. 

"Which way, Judge?" I said to my dog when we 
had got outside the building. I had then, as I have 
now, a fancy for holding on to Judge's chain and let- 
ting him lead me at his will. Judge headed towards 
the Houses of Parliament and I followed. Then he 
turned towards Westminster Bridge, and finally we 
crossed it. Then we wandered among the streets of 
Camberwell, where children were playing in front of 
the small houses. Judge, in all his beauty and 
splendor, attracted the attention of a group of tiny 
tots, who immediately gathered round us. I was 
dressed rather well and stylishly on that occasion, 
and my appearance did not betray the very low state 
of my finances. To those children, Judge and I were 
"quality folk" from the West End, walking about to 
gratify our curiosity concerning the doings of the 
poor and the East End folk. One little girl, pretty, 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 69 

though, ragged and dirty, interested me greatly. I 
asked her name and where she lived, and found that 
her home was in a lodging house, with an older sister 
who did sewing. 

"If yer ever want any sewing done, laidy, the plain 
kind, me sister 5 !! do it fer ye," said the child. 

"How much money can your sister earn by sew- 
ing?" I asked. 

"About one an' sixpence every day," returned the 
child. 

I was about to walk on when Judge, hearing me 
say "good-by" automatically put out his right paw 
to the child to shake, whereupon she seized it, ex- 
claiming : — 

"Oh, laidy! Please lemme show yer dawg to me 
sister! She ain't never seen no such hanimal, an' 
Vs so cunnin' !" 

So to please the child, Judge and I climbed up 
several flights of stairs and into a room where I saw 
poverty of a different kind from that which I myself 
was experiencing, different from any that I had ever 
seen before. A girl of perhaps twenty-two or twenty- 
three sat sewing, and rose to meet her little sister with 
an exclamation of horror as she saw her visitors. It 
was a rather absurd situation, and the humorous 
aspect of it appealed to me. I had been dragged up 
those stairs by a ragged little London girl to be 
shown off to her sister as a rich West End lady with 
a beautiful dog to amuse a tired working girl — I, 
with tuppence ha'penny, confronting the problem 
of how to keep from starving in London ! The sew- 



70 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

ing girl took her apron and dusted a chair, bidding 
me be seated. The little sister begged that I would 
make my dog "do tricks for Sister Molly." 

"Your little sister tells me you do sewing," I said, 
for the sake of starting conversation. "She says 
you earn only one and sixpence a day. Can't you 
engage in some employment that pays better? It 
seems so little." 

I stopped suddenly, and, in a half-dazed way, re- 
membered that I myself was not earning one and 
sixpence a day. 

"No, miss, I can't do anything else," answered 
the girl. 

"There's domestic service," I said, innocently. 

Just why I happened to think of domestic service 
in connection with the girl, I do not know. I talked 
only for the sake of saying something. I took no 
particular interest in her. But her face blazed up 
at the mention of domestic service, and then 
and there she gave me to understand that she was 
no menial. She would rather sew and have her lib- 
erty, she said, than be a servant and have none, and, 
as for caps and aprons, did I expect a self-respecting 
girl to put them on? 

After that I had nothing to say, and, bidding her 
a hasty good morning, Judge and I descended the 
creaking stairs. When I got out in the open air, the 
humorous side of the thing again struck me. I, to 
suggest to others a way to earn their living, when I 
was in such difficulty concerning my own ! "Now," 
I thought to myself, "if I were that girl instead of 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 71 

myself, I would have an easier time of it. The thing 
for her to do is to become a housemaid. Why, if I 
were a sewing girl earning only eighteen pence a day, 
I'd jump at the chance of being a servant, and " 

Then I did jump, as though I were struck. I was 
struck — struck with an Idea ! Judge and I had been 
walking back from Camberwell the way we had gone, 
and again we were on the edge of Westminster 
Bridge. I went over to the railing and looked down 
at Father Thames. Then I stooped down lovingly 
to pat the head of my pedigreed poodle. He it was 
who had led me in the way of that Idea which was to 
prevent my fulfilling the colonel's prophecy. 

"Judge," I said, looking him full in the eyes, and 
taking his paw there on Westminster Bridge, "I'll go 
out as a housemaid and write it up for the papers, 
and so I shall get my start in London, and there are 
better times ahead. And it's your 'idea,' Judge, not 
mine, for you led me in the way of it. I mustn't 
put it in the newspapers just how the thing came 
about — how I determined I wouldn't fulfill the 
colonel's prophecy, and how my dear doggie was com- 
missioned of Heaven to save me. We can't put it in 
print like that just yet, old fellow, but one of these 
days, yes, one of these days, my dog story shall be 
written. Ha, ha ! Judge ! we've got it, — haven't we ? 
— the Idea ! London's got to give us a living, a 
decent, comfortable, satisfying one. It's got to give 
us three square meals a day and afternoon tea besides. 
It's got to give me hats and dresses and theater 
tickets, and you, great wide, all-silk ribbons for neck- 
ties. It's got to give us rides in hansoms, — eh, 



72 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

Judge ? — and once in awhile a drive in the park in a 
victoria. You'll like that, Judge, and so will I. 
Why, Judge, you and I are young, and we love the 
follies and vanities of the world, and we're going to 
have some of them. Why shouldn't we, if we earn 
them? We're going to work for Old London, hon- 
estly and honorably, and Old London has got to pay 
us our wages." 

I released Judge's paw. He wagged his tail in 
agreement with me and trotted along beside me over 
the bridge. When we were nearly across it, I took 
a final look at Father Thames, and a sudden inspira- 
tion seized me. 

"Father Thames," I said, leaning far over to gaze 
into his very depths, "here's tuppence ha'penny for 
you. With it, I'm what they call i broke.' Without 
it, I'll be penniless and 'dead broke,' and, as I'm 
taking a new start in life to-day, I'll start even. 
Here's to your next century's scraping, Father 
Thames, and treasure-trove to the monarch then on 
the English throne !" 

With that I threw all my financial resources into 
the Thames, taking defiant aim three times in suc- 
cession. One penny dropped upon the water, then 
another, then a half-penny. 

Holding tight to Judge, I left Westminster Bridge 
a "dead broke" American girl in London, and when 
I opened the flat door with my latchkey, I called 
out: — 

"Dinah, come and take Judge. He must be hun- 
gry by this time, so give him the bone and the milk 
he left from breakfast. And, oh, Dinah, I've had an 



OF A "NEWSPAPEK GIKL" 73 

accident! I was standing on Westminster Bridge, 
looking into the water, and I dropped all my money 
into the river. Have you got any money left from 
your last month's wages, Dinah?" 

"Oh, Miss Polly! I done got seven shillings, an' 
I ain't got no use fer it, an' I len' it to yo' and wel- 
come, but oh, Miss Polly, yo' done drop all de money 
yo' hab into de ribber ? Did you take it all out when 
yo'lef deflat?" 

"Yes, Dinah, I took every penny out with me, and 
I dropped it all into the river," I answered, turning 
my own eyes in which shone the light of truth, to 
her affrighted ones. "But don't worry, Dinah! 
There's always something to be thankful for. If the 
amount had been larger, it would have been worse, 
you see, though perhaps if there had been more of it, 
I wouldn't have dropped it. Anyway, I've got to go 
right out again to a newspaper office. You can use 
your seven shillings to buy stores for the kitchen, 
and I'll pay you back in a day or two." 

"Yes, Miss Polly; but oh, Miss Polly, ob all de 
misfortunes what happen to us, it am de werry wust 
fer yo' to drop yo' money into de ribber !" 

But I was off, leaving Dinah to make her lamenta- 
tions to herself and Judge, who, I was thankful to 
remember, could not talk English and tell her the 
truth about the exact amount of the money I had 
dropped into the river and the particular method I 
took to drop it. 

I did not borrow bus fare from Dinah because it 
suited my whim to "start even" and "dead broke" 
with that Idea of mine, so I walked all the way to 



74 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

Fleet street, then turned into Whitefriars street, and, 
with another turn, went into the office of a newspaper 
that had published three short articles of mine at the 
rate of a pound apiece. I found one of the editors, 
and asked to see the editor-in-chief. 

"He can't see you, I know," was the answer. 
"Why, he's writing four articles this very minute !" 

"He can't write four articles at once. Even an 
American editor couldn't do that," I retorted. 

"But he can, and he's the only man in London 
that can do it. He's dictating one article to a young 
woman typist; another to a young man typist; an- 
other to a telegraph operator, and the fourth one he's 
writing himself." 

"Dear me !" I replied. "If he's a man of so many 
ideas, perhaps, after all, he wouldn't pay any atten- 
tion to me, for I'm only a woman with one idea. I 
wanted to tell him about it. I know it's a good one." 

"What is it? Tell me. I'm acting editor, and if 
it's anything important, I'll lay it before him and 
give you an answer." 

"My idea is to go out as a servant and write up 
my experiences as a serial for your paper. Every- 
body is interested in the servant question. Lots of 
people want servants and can't get them, and lots of 
girls are starving in London. Now, I propose to 
advertise and get a situation, and then write my true 
experiences, without giving any names or addresses, 
of course, and tell whether or not, in my opinion, it 
would be a suitable employment for gentlewomen as 
well as working girls. Now, shall I go out as a 
servant for your paper?" 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 75 

"What, you? Why, you couldn't get a place, to 
begin with, and, if you did, you couldnU do the work. 
Your idea is not practicable." 

"Well, I'm going, anyway," I answered. 

"Going where?" 

"Going out to service and going to write my expe- 
riences, and, if you don't want it, I'll find some other 
editor who does. As a matter of fact, I intend to 
find such an editor this afternoon." 

"Wait a minute, will you?" he said, as he left the 
room. He returned in about ten minutes. 

"I've talked your matter over with the editor-in- 
chief, and he thinks the idea all right, but says you 
can't do it. He agrees with me that it would make 
interesting copy if you could do it, but you couldn't 
get a place." 

"But if I get a place and write the serial for you, 
say in six installments of two columns each, how 
much would it be worth?" 

"But we can't agree to take things we've never seep 
and you've never written." 

"No, that would be unbusiness-like, I confess," I 
returned. "But let me put it to you in this way : If 
I get a place as domestic servant in London or in 
the country near London, and write up my expe- 
riences and you like them and think them suitable 
for your paper, how much would you pay me ?" 

"Twenty pounds." 

"All right ! I'll do it ! You won't hear from me 
again till I'm somebody's parlor maid or housemaid. 
I'll write to you from my situation and tell you how 
I'm getting on." 



76 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

So the "bargain/' if bargain it could be termed, 
was sealed. Twenty pounds seemed a great sum of 
money to me in those days, especially when I multi- 
plied it by five and thought of it as one hundred 
dollars. 

That evening, at the flat, I summed up the situa- 
tion thus: — 

"I have found a newspaper editor who says that if 
I can do a thing which he knows I can't do, and then 
write a series about it in such a way as shall please 
him, he will publish it and pay me twenty pounds. 
To do the thing I must have enough money to live 
on for at least a month, and must have cash at once 
for advertising, buying caps and aprons, print dress, 
black dress, collars and cuffs. There is no money in 
the flat, but enough food on hand, bought with 
Dinah's money, to last three or four days, if used 
very economically. Puzzle — how to get some cash \" 

Then I went to bed, with the unsolved puzzle in 
my mind, and the next morning I knew what I must 
do — sell my typewriter ! The furniture was mort- 
gaged. The old tin pan which was called a piano 
was hired, but the typewriter was my own. I had 
brought it with me to London as a necessary adjunct 
to my proposed newspaper work. I had grown to 
love my machine. To me it was not an inanimate 
but a sentient, living thing. I had dealt tenderly 
and carefully by it, oiling and dusting and polishing 
it every morning, and at night time had sometimes 
lovingly patted it when it had earned for me a five 
dollar bill or a sovereign. When I knew I must sell 
it, small wonder that I cried over its keyboard. Then, 



OF A "NEWSPAPEK GIKL" 77 

when I had cried, I washed my face, donned my hat 
and went out and made a bargain, selling the thing 
for twelve pounds, though it was as bright and capa- 
ble as when I had bought it for twenty. I sent a 
man to look at it and he bought it and took it away. 

Then I was rich — that is, passing rich, with twelve 
pounds. I paid Dinah what I owed her, and went 
out again and negotiated for another typewriter, to 
be bought on the installment plan, paying three 
pounds down and signing an agreement to pay two 
pounds a month afterwards. 

When I had got through with this somewhat pecul- 
iar sort of business transaction, I sat down and 
admired my own cleverness. I remembered my diffi- 
culties at college with even the simplest of mathe- 
matical problems, and the prophecy of my teachers 
that whatever else I might do I would never become 
a good business woman. Here again was a prophecy 
unfulfilled. How little did those instructors know 
of my capabilities in a business way when the emer- 
gency should arise ! I woke up that morning with- 
out a penny, though I had a typewriter. I went to 
bed the proud possessor of another typewriter, just 
as good, and nearly nine pounds. What a deal, to be 
sure ! In the morning, a typewriter and no money ; 
then money and no typewriter, and then money and 
typewriter both ! Given my circumstances, who 
could have done better than I ? Buoyant and full of 
hope and faith that evening, I sat at the old tin pan 
and played and sang gleefully, while Judge danced 
about the room with his ruffled paws. Dinah hesi- 
tated over the laying of the supper table and looked 
at the new typewriter in the corner 



78 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

"Done got machine fixed werry quick fo' dis coun- 
try, w'ich am alius mighty slow, didn't dey, Miss 
Polly?" she observed. 

"Yes, Dinah," I answered; "it was done in some- 
thing of a hurry and I got some money to-day, and 
things are looking up." 

"Glad o* dat!" returned Dinah, bustling back to 
the kitchen. She was under the impression that I 
had sent the machine out to be repaired and had got 
it back. I found that a very easy and plausible 
explanation to make to her, when one man had come 
to take the first machine away and another had come, 
apparently, to bring it back. 

I wrote out my advertisement for a situation on 
the new machine that night, and on August 23, 1893, 
it appeared in the London Daily Telegraph. It was 
a peculiar sort of advertisement, and brought me one 
hundred and fifty answers. In reply to them I spent 
about two weeks tramping over London, and then 
came my reward in the shape of an engagement, or, 
rather, two engagements. 

Shall I ever forget that starting out into service? 
How several times I went out of the flat door, then 
flew back again to give Judge just one more pat and 
make Dinah renew her oath of allegiance to my dog 
during my absence. It was agreed that she and 
Judge were to meet me every evening near a certain 
pillar-box at about ten o'clock, where I would go 
nightly to post the letters of the family with whom 
I had engaged as housemaid. It was in this way 
that I kept in touch with my little home circle while 
I essayed to play the part of maidservant. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 79 



CHAPTER VII. 

I BECOME A MAIDSERVANT. 

I had resided in England something less than a 
year when I donned a cap and apron with the purpose 
of getting experience as a London servant and turn- 
ing that "experience" into newspaper copy. During 
those few months I had gained but little knowledge 
of English home-life, English customs, and English 
manners. My English acquaintances, too, were few, 
and my friends, using that term in its proper sense, 
were none. I had not, at that time, ever visited any 
of the women's clubs, or the houses of any prominent 
Englishwomen, and, with the exception of such per- 
sons of art and letters as were celebrated in my own 
country as well as in England, I had then been given 
no opportunity of discovering "who was who" in 
London. 

It is therefore not at all strange that, when I 
became a housemaid in the metropolis, I happened, 
all unwittingly, to enter the service of a family, sev- 
eral members of which were rather well known in 
certain circles of society. When I made this dis- 
covery, I was extremely sorry for the chance that had 
led me in that particular direction, and, had my 
circumstances permitted me to do so, I would have 
given up that situation at once and started out in 



80 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

another, leaving the first experience entirely out of 
my newspaper write-up. But my time was limited, 
my health and nerves not in the state which war- 
ranted my beginning all over again, and my necessi- 
ties were great. 

I have a keen recollection of how, on the second 
day of my experience in service, I sat upon the edge 
of the bed in the room that was assigned to myself 
and my fellow servants as a sleeping apartment, and 
argued the whole question out with my mind and 
my conscience, and how, applying the rule by which 
I tried to guide all my actions — "This, above all, to 
thine own self be true" — to the situation in which I 
then found myself, I decided that I was justified in 
taking advantage of the means for helping myself 
that seemed to have been thrown in my way. It had 
been very difficult for me to obtain any situation at 
all. My lack of a "character" from a former mistress, 
my suspicious American accent, my diminutive stat- 
ure and my far from robust appearance had all stood 
in my way. I had been refused a situation by over 
one hundred London mistresses. Only one other 
woman had given me encouragement to hope that 
she might engage me. She had half promised to 
take me, but could not let me know until the follow- 
ing week. In the meantime a sure thing had been 
offered to me and I had accepted it. 

As I sat on the bed, I kept asking myself over and 
over again, "Shall I give up what may be my only 
chance? Shall I give it up, and, perhaps, after all, 
fulfill the colonel's prophecy by starving in London?" 

Both my common sense and my conscience an- 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 81 

swered, "No! a thousand times no! You have got 
your chance. If you throw it away, you may never 
get another one. Under these circumstances, as well 
as under any others, you can be true, to yourself and 
therefore not false to anyone." 

Then, on that second morning, I hurriedly pulled 
on my stockings, buttoned my boots, donned my print 
dress and my morning cap and apron and started out 
to do my work to the best of my ability. 

I have forgotten just how many times I went up 
and down the four flights of stairs that morning 
before breakfast. I do remember, however, that 
what with the carrying of hot water, the preparing 
of baths, the sweeping and dusting, and the shaking 
and brushing of the family skirts and trousers, I was 
more tired physically when I sat down to the kitchen 
breakfast than I had ever before been in my life. 
Along with my weariness had come an appetite for 
solid, substantial food. When bread and butter and 
coffee were placed before me, I created a diversion in 
the kitchen by asking innocently, "Where's the 
meat?" 

"What meat?" asked the parlor maid, surprisedly. 

"The meat for our breakfast," I returned, still 
more innocently. 

Then I was informed that the regular kitchen 
breakfast was bread and butter and coffee, or tea, if 
one preferred it. 

As the household was somewhat upset, and the 
regular number of servants had not been engaged, we 
were on board-wages for a time — one and sixpence a 
day. I had some money with me, a part of the pro- 



82 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

ceeds from the sale of my typewriter, so I added what 
seemed to me to be a necessary sum to the board- 
wages and went out that day and purchased certain 
kinds of food, substantial and nourishing, which I 
thought would help to keep me in proper condition 
for the task I had undertaken. 

As I have said, I knew little of London in those 
days. I had, in the flat, known what it was to econo- 
mize and "do without things" when the state of my 
finances demanded it, but I did not know then, as 
I have since learned, that one and sixpence a day was 
the regular rate of board-wages usually paid to Lon- 
don servants, nor did I know what one and sixpence 
was capable of buying in the way of eatables. I 
therefore looked upon the sum as inadequate and con- 
sidered that allowance a rather mean one. I said to 
the parlor maid: — 

"How can one get proper food on one and sixpence 
a day?" 

"Well, you'll have to," was the answer; "it's all 
she gives." 

I suppose it is not necessary for me to state that 
the "she" referred to was the mistress of the house, 
who, except upon very rare occasions, was known in 
the kitchen only by that title. 

When the regular staff of servants was made up, 
which happened within two or three days, the board- 
wages were withdrawn and the servants had their 
meals provided by the mistress. Then was I more 
than ever surprised to find that bread and butter and 
coffee still figured as the only breakfast for the serv- 
ants, and, when I was informed that such was the 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIKL" 83 

regular morning diet, I was overcome with astonish- 
ment, which finally led me to ask the mistress herself 
if it were true. Yes, it was true, she told me, and 
she further informed me that I was not likely to suit 
her. As I had gone to the place only for a week on 
trial, to see whether or not I was likely to suit, the 
ordinary "notice" was not deemed necessary on either 
side, and as I had no intention of remaining, in any 
case, longer than a week, I was very glad to be dis- 
missed by my mistress instead of being obliged to 
offer her my resignation. But I had still several 
days before the end of my week, and I .applied myself 
to the business I had undertaken. 

To keep up my strength, I daily used a part of my 
own money for the supplementing of the breakfast 
and supper allowed to the servants. The dinners I 
found were wholesome and ample. What most aston- 
ished me was that the rest of the servants seemed not 
particularly discontented with the bread and coffee 
breakfast and the bread and cheese supper which 
were provided for them. What they lacked in variety 
they made up in the quantity of bread and butter 
they ate, and I do not think any of them were ever 
hungry. I have since learned that such breakfasts 
and suppers are very often the only kind allowed to 
many of the London servants, though I am still of 
the opinion that it is neither good sense nor economy 
for mistresses to allow so large a consumption of 
bread and butter in their kitchens to the exclusion of 
other food. I have noticed that some servants are 
capable of eating enough butter at one meal to pay 
for a good substantial bit of meat or bacon or a 
couple of eggs. 



84 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

One of the pleasant things I have to remember of 
that week in service is the good, sound, healthy 
sleep I enjoyed. The bed was hard and springless, 
and all the appointments of the room which I shared 
with two other servants were as different as possible 
from those of the dainty bedroom, with its mortgaged 
furniture, at the flat. But so tired was I when bed- 
time came that no such thing as insomnia ever 
troubled me, and every morning at six o'clock I rose 
with a prayer of thankfulness for the blessing of 
sleep. 

Nearly all of the tasks I was given to perform I 
did well and conscientiously. I say nearly all, for 
there were certain kinds of work I thought it well to 
attempt in peculiar and original ways in order to 
draw out observations from my fellow servants and 
occasionally to note the effect upon my mistress. I 
did not allow myself for one instant to forget that I 
was a journalist seeking "copy" and I had no notion 
of letting any opportunities for getting that all- 
important article slip by me. 

Thus it was that one day, when I had a lot of 
candlesticks to clean and noting that a bronze 
Minerva among them was badly mottled with grease, 
I innocently remarked in the presence of the other 
servants : — 

"It's an awful job to clean the candle grease off 
that female figure. I wonder if there's any way to 
get it off quickly?" 

"It do take time for that sort of thing," observed 
one of the servants. 

I began carefully scraping off the grease with a 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 85 

hairpin. It took nearly an hour. When I had 
finished, I remarked to the parlor maid : — 

"It seems as if there ought to be a way of getting 
that candle grease off without spending so much 
time. How did you get it off when you were house- 
maid ?" 

"Oh, I didn't use a hairpin! I used my finger 
nails," was the reply. 

"But don't you think if we put her in the oven and 
baked her well, the grease would come off, on a paper 
or something?" I asked, with serious eyes and guile- 
less face. 

"Bake a candlestick?" exclaimed Annie. "Any- 
body could tell you never was taught how to work !" 

"Or boiled her in some hot water — don't you think 
that would do it ?" I continued. 

"Did you ever see such a fool?" I heard one ask 
the other as I left the kitchen with Minerva, and, 
when the door was shut, I laughed softly and then, 
fell to wondering why somebody did not start a school 
for would-be housemaids and parlor maids in 
London. 

The thing that most impressed me during my 
career as a housemaid was the need of many Ameri- 
can housekeeping conveniences in typical English 
homes. When I assisted the parlor maid in carrying 
food and dishes from the kitchen to the dining room 
I sighed for the "dumb-waiter" or lift, of which we 
make use in our modern-built American houses. The 
continual running up and down many flights of 
stairs with hot and cold water — instead of having it 
laid on, if not in each bedroom, at least on each floor, 



86 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

— was the most tiresome and wearing of all my tasks. 
TTp and down, up and down, always up and down, I 
seemed to be going from morning till night. The 
helplessness, too, of Englishwomen, as compared with 
the activity of my own countrywomen, was also a 
thing of which I took note. In America the woman 
who has not a personal lady's maid, has a habit of 
waiting upon herself. In England I learned by my 
own experience, and by gossiping with the servants, 
that no woman who kept even so much as a "general" 
attempted to brush her own skirts, rub off her boots, 
or put coal on her fire. 

But of all the things that worked most "wear and 
tear" upon my nervous system, the constant dread in 
which I lived of being "found out" was the worst. 

Once my heart almost stopped beating when the 
cook, exasperated by my contention that no servant 
had a right to hold letters written by her mistress 
over a candle in order to attempt to read the contents 
of them, exclaimed: — 

"Oh, you ! you're nothin' but a spy and houtsider, 
any'ow ! You ain't no proper servant !" 

"I don't understand," I answered faintly. 

"Easy enough to understand," she returned. "You 
breaks a dish and you goes and tells. You don't 
want the parlor maid to tell me any of the interest- 
ing things about the family, and you pertend you 
don't read any of her letters when you dust her desk." 

I must again explain that the "her" referred to 
was the mistress of the house. 

"I just hates underhand dealin's and spyin' about, 
and you're a spy," continued the cook. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 87 

I breathed freely again. 

"All right!" I answered, as I went upstairs with 
a can of hot water. 

It was true that although a "chiel amang them 
takin' notes," I endeavored in every possible way to 
avoid obtaining or imparting knowledge concerning 
the private, personal affairs of the family in whose 
service I was engaged, and whatever of such informa- 
tion was forced upon me I kept to myself and made 
absolutely no use of in the "write-up" which I subse- 
quently made of my housemaid experience. 

My first place I left at the end of one week, going 
from there to take a situation as parlor maid in Ken- 
sington, a situation I obtained by calling on a lady 
when the time for my Sunday afternoon out came 
round. There I found a kinder, more considerate 
mistress with most incompetent, unaccommodating 
servants. The more privileges given them, the 
greater and more unfair were the advantages taken, 
so that when at the end of another week I went back 
to the flat, I was not by any means an advocate of 
increased "liberty" for London servants, and my 
sympathy for London mistresses equaled, if it did not 
exceed, that which I felt for London servants. 

That return to Dinah and the flat, after two weeks 
spent in domestic service, was a stirring event. I 
remember that when it was all over I proved myself 
the typical, ordinary woman, who, having held her 
own and exhibited surprising strength and fortitude 
in an emergency, falls down in a faint when the 
emergency is past and nothing more is required of 
her. I burst into the flat and sprang upon Judge 



88 THE AUTOBIOGEAPHY 

and Dinah like something wild and crazy, crying, 
"Dinah ! Dinah ! put me to bed ! I'm going to 
pieces ! There's something snapped in my back and 
in my head !" 

After that there were ten days spent mostly in bed 
and an occasional visit from a doctor, whose subse- 
quent fees needed no microscope to be seen largely. 
There was rest and sleep and sympathy from Judge, 
interspersed with murmurs from Dinah of, "Oh, 
Miss Polly ! I done tol' yo' so ! I say many de time 
when yo' talk 'bout dat sarvant bus'ness, lemme go 
an' do de work an' tol' yo' all about it an' yo' write 
'em for de paper, 'cause scrubbin' am for niggahs an' 
w'ite trash !" 

But, like Truth, crushed to earth, I rose again, 
and soon the flat resounded with the noise of my 
typewriter, as I wrote out the true account of my 
experiences under the title of "In Cap and Apron." 

I use the word true in almost, if not quite, its 
strictest sense. My real reason for going into service, 
which was that I might get a start in English jour- 
nalism and thus put myself in a fair way of earning 
my own living in London, I did not state, in so many 
words, believing that that way diplomacy did not lie. 
I reasoned it out that if London knew that the ama- 
teur housemaid, who essayed to put her experiences 
into print, was quite as much compelled by necessity 
to go into domestic service in order to earn her living 
as was any real housemaid who ever applied to a 
London mistress for a situation, then London might 
not be so much interested in the story of her ups and 
downs, on the principle that the poor it had ever 
with it. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 89 

So whatever was sad, whatever was tragic, and, to 
a certain extent, whatever was serious, I determined 
to leave out of my "In Cap and Apron" series. I 
knew there were plenty to write fiction, plenty to 
write tragedy, so I chose what afterwards proved to 
be the "better and more popular part of trying to write 
brightly and entertainingly of my brief experience 
as a servant. The fact of my being an American girl 
I kept to myself, although it very comically leaked 
out, when my articles appeared in print, through 
some "Americanisms" such as "wash bowls and 
pitchers" instead of "basins and jugs" and my 
demand for a meat breakfast. I also did what might 
possibly be termed a little "posing" during the course 
of my narrative, by letting it appear that I was not 
well up in the art of housework, and unacquainted 
with the proper method of scrubbing, cleaning bronze 
candlesticks, etc., and thereby brought down upon my 
head the ire of many a British housewife who took 
the relation of my attempts at scrubbing and candle- 
stick cleaning in a too serious manner. The fact 
is that I was then and am now, like the major- 
ity of my countrywomen, a very good house- 
worker, and what I did not know by experience I 
knew by instinct, and if, as was afterwards poetically 
asserted by Sir Walter Besant, I "housemaided it 
with zeal and also pranks," I acted thuswise for the 
purpose of trying to break up the monotony of the 
daily life of myself and my fellow servants, thus fur- 
nishing somewhat more interesting "cop/' than I 
otherwise could have done. All work and no play is 
bound to make one a dull journalist. 



90 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

The names of my employers, the neighborhoods in 
which they lived, their professions and the position 
which they occupied in London society, I carefully 
concealed in my write-up, substituting names, ad- 
dresses, and occupations as different as possible from 
the real ones, and if ever in the years that followed 
it became known in what particular London families 
I had acted the part of maidservant, it was not 
through any information that came from me, either 
in my writing or my conversation. 

When two chapters of the "In Cap and Apron" 
series were written and handed to the editor to whom 
I had first carried my Idea, the story of my adven- 
tures began to appear in print, it not being considered 
necessary to wait until I had finished the whole. 

In the midst of the publication and of my writing, 
I was sent by the same editor to go touring through 
the mining towns of Lancashire and Yorkshire, 
where the great coal strike of 1893 was in progress. 
I was commissioned to write about the distress of 
the miners and their wives and children, but I had 
no sooner arrived in the mining towns than my own 
"distress" became greater than any I witnessed 
among the colliers, for my sympathies were not all 
with the miners and their wives, though they abided 
always with the innocent children. Beer and waste- 
fulness and filth I found everywhere among them, 
and in the midst of their drunkenness they described 
to me their "wrongs" and told of children "clem- 
min" at home while both parents caroused in the 
public houses. Thus my own "distress," the distress 
I felt at having to apparently "side with" the colliers 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 91 

when it seemed to me that justice and right were 
partly with the mine owners, doubtless showed itself 
in the reports I daily sent on to the London paper 
that was upholding the cause of the strikers, and 
before the end of the week a pertinent telegram, 
"Come back," brought me to London. 

"Your reports were not exactly the thing," said the 
editor, when I again stood before him. "You seemed 
to lack sympathy." 

"Not at all," I responded. "I can't tell you how 
much I sympathized with the mine owners as well as 
the strikers." 

"I thought so," he laughed. "But your servant 
girl series has caught on, and we shall want the third 
installment at once." 

So I returned to the flat, and during the next three 
weeks I wrote six more chapters of "In Cap and 
Apron," making eight in all, I having discovered 
that six, as originally agreed upon, would not hold 
all I had to tell. Then for eight weeks ran the story 
of my adventures, in the press. 



92 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 



CHAPTER VIII. 



«# * * gkg ^ j n y^qj. highly becoming cap and 
apron, the heroine of the town. Her strange, wild, 
and curious adventures are the common theme of 
conversation in thousands of English homes, where 
the pros and cons of the case are eagerly discussed 
by both the parties concerned. Indeed, mistress and 
maid, should a good understanding subsist between 
them, exchange views on the position taken by the 
author. That position is really untenable. We con- 
tend that she, in her confessed ignorance of the duties 
of the profession, which, for journalistic purposes, 
she undertook, was not properly equipped for her 
essay in servanthood. * * * She announces at 
the outset of her voyage of discovery her inability to 
darn a sock ! Does there actually breathe a woman 
in whom the domestic instinct is so dead as this? 
* * * She cleans a bronze Minerva candlestick 
with a hairpin! * * * An ivory ornament was 
resolved into its component parts, under her incom- 
petent hands, in a pail of hot water, and, contrary 
to her fellow servant's advice,, she insisted on con- 
fessing to having broken it. * * *" 

Thus ran a part of a column article in the Pall 
Mall Gazette, of November 22, 1893, and I was the 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 93 

"heroine." I did not, however, see it on November 
22&. I could not afford the luxury of buying news- 
papers in those days, and so it happened that for 
several days, though I was a "heroine," I was entirely 
ignorant of that encouraging fact. Think of it ! In 
those days, there stood only a penny between sadness 
and gladness for me, and I could not spend that 
penny. 

It was several days after the 22d of November that, 
walking along Piccadilly, I met an American news- 
paper man whom I had not seen since I left my 
native land. 

"Lo, the conquering heroine comes !" he exclaimed, 
taking off his hat and making a low obeisance. "It 
took an American girl to stir 'em up and show 'em 
what's what in journalism. You didn't starve in 
London, after all, did you?" 

"No, I didn't starve," I answered, "but I haven't 
lived on canvasback duck nor lobsters and things. 
But I've got a little start, now, and I'm going to stay 
in London till I do something. I've got a series 
running in one of the papers now." 

"Stay till you do something! Got a 'series' run- 
ning now ! Why, you seem to have a series running 
in all the papers, or something mighty like it, as 
far as I can make out ! I haven't picked up a Lon- 
don paper since I've been over that didn't have some- 
thing about you in it. Why, the papers are full of 
you, and the London correspondents are cabling over 
home about you ! You've done us all proud. You 
don't mean to say that you don't know you're the 
talk of London, — a regular right-down heroine?" 



94 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

My compatriot looked at me suspiciously, and I 
returned his look quite honestly, as I replied: — 

"No, I didn't know it. I've scarcely seen a paper, 
and I haven't been up to much since I got out of 
service." 

"Well, you're the most indifferent, not to say non- 
progressive and w?i-energetic American girl I ever 
knew ! Why, even I have got my pocket stuffed full 
of you, — that is, things about you that I've cut from 
the papers. I'm going to write a great story about 
you to send over. Come on in here and have lunch, 
and while we're eating you can read all about how 
you're the greatest show on earth." 

With that, he conducted me into a restaurant 
where Americans in London largely foregather, and, 
as the meal progressed, there were spread before my 
astonished, though delighted, eyes, the evidences of 
the success which my "In Cap and Apron" series was 
achieving. What kind, encouraging things the Lon- 
don papers were saying about "the American girl," 
to be sure, even the most staid and conservative of 
them ! Some took my journalistic exploit as a far 
more serious affair than it was. They opined that 
I was a reformer and a philanthropist, bent upon 
solving the domestic servant question, and delivering 
both servants and mistresses in England out of bond- 
age. Other papers viewed the whole proceeding as 
a "lark," and declared I had entered upon it in a 
spirit of mischief and was writing it all up "for the 
fun of the thing." Both surmises were kindly meant, 
but both were wrong. 

It was just about this time that letters from all 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 95 

parts of Great Britain began pouring in upon me, 
letters addressed in care of the paper in which the 
series was appearing, asking me to tell my real object 
in going out to domestic service. Servants begged 
me to become president of their leagues, mistresses 
wanted to know what good I expected to accomplish. 
I was accused of being a "busybody" trying to set 
the English servants against their employers, and 
putting false notions of equality into their heads. 
"Why did you do it? What was your aim and what 
do you expect to accomplish by it?" were the ques- 
tions asked me in hundreds upon hundreds of letters. 

To those letters I could not reply, first, because the 
writers neglected the formality of inclosing postage 
stamps, and : second, because I had neither the time 
nor the physical strength for entering upon so ardu- 
ous a task. I remember that shortly after that there 
came to me an invitation to a gathering of women, 
which I thought it might be well for me to accept. 
At that meeting a woman writer came over to me 
and said: — 

"Now, tell me exactly, what was your aim and 
object — your serious one, I mean, — in going out to 
service and writing about it ? It is a question we are 
all asking." 

"I did it for 'copy/ " I answered ; "to earn my 
living, you know. I knew it was a subject that would 
interest everybody." 

I shall never forget the shocked expression on that 
woman's face, nor fail to remember her exclamation 
of surprise and disgust, as she replied: — 

" 'Copy !' You mean to confess you had no phil- 



96 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

anthropic aim, that you did it for mercenary reasons, 
merely to earn your living?" 

"Yes," I returned, looking her squarely in the face, 
"I'm not a hypocrite and I won't pose as a reformer. 
I did it to earn my living ; but, of course, if my pub- 
lished experience helps others to earn theirs, I shall 
be very glad. I have done my best with this series 
and have been absolutely honest and impartial. I 
have taken no sides. I have simply told the truth/' 

"Oh ! I really never thought any journalist would 
sink to such a level, or make such a confession, even 
though it were true ! I must say that I have never 
written anything except with the object of benefiting 
somebody by it." 

"Perhaps you have an income aside from your 
writing, which I have not," I answered; "and then, 
I am sure you have never undertaken the hard kind 
of work I have just done. Would you scrub floors 
and carry water up five flights of stairs and make 
yourself ill in mind and body, doing work to which 
you were not accustomed, from motives of philan- 
thropy ?" 

I got only a disgusted "Oh, what a motive \" in 
answer to my question. I left the place soon after- 
wards. The atmosphere seemed not congenial. My 
unblushing confession of my "motive" in going out 
to service was repeated in London's female journal- 
istic and club circles, and it was never accounted unto 
me for righteousness. 

It seems now a very long time ago, since, trying to 
be honest by answering honestly a simple question 
that was put to me, I suddenly found myself looked 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 97 

upon in certain quarters as a sort of journalistic 
pariah, outcast from some circles of the truly good 
and worthy female writers for the press. "Tell the 
truth and shame the devil," said somebody once upon 
a time, but "tell the truth and shame yourself," was 
the way it seemed to me the saying should run in 
those early London days. There have been occa- 
sions since that time of struggle against hunger when 
I, too, thank God ! have been able to write from pure 
love of and interest in my subject; when I have seen 
the weak and helpless abused, the right downtrodden 
and the wrong rising triumphant, and have said, "I 
will wield my pen in the cause of righteousness for 
mere righteousness' sake/' and have been able to 
donate the fees I received to the upbuilding of the 
cause I have championed. Happy those writers who 
can always do this ; who know not what it is to write 
merely as a means of money-getting; who have 
needed never to write the "pot-boiling" article or the 
"pot-boiling" book. Happy are they and blessed, for 
truly they have entered into the Kingdom of Heaven 
— the Kingdom after which the rest of us ever strive 
with hard work and longing. 

But it is not for them to sneer at us who work 
honestly and conscientiously at our trade. Rather 
let them follow the command of the Man of God and 
sell all that they have and give to the poor, and start 
out penniless, and learn the lesson of working for a 
living. Let them have to report a Sunday night's 
sermon in order to pay for their Monday night's 
dinner, or rather let them have to go without their 
Monday night's dinner because payment is only made 



98 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

on Saturday nights at the newspaper offices; let 
them know the pain that hunger can give and the 
aches and diseases that tireless grates bring on; let 
them see their dear ones dying for lack of medicine; 
the dead bodies of those they love waiting in one 
room for a shroud, while in the next room they must 
write a comic story for a comic paper in order to buy 
it — let them experience all this and more, ten thou- 
sand times more, and then, if they do not fall upon 
their knees crying out, "Money! money! Oh, God, 
give me ideas which I can turn into money — money 
to satisfy hunger, to build a fire, to save my dying, 
to bury my dead!" — then, why then, they are not 
human, but only monstrosities. 

Who that is breakfastless and dinnerless can write 
an article on "The Need of a Christmas Feast for 
the Poor," merely and solely for the sake of those 
who are known as "the poor" ? To that "feast" the 
hungry journalist is not invited, for who suspects 
that she may be hungry and far "poorer" than the 
"very poor" of the East End of London or the East 
Side of New York? The journalist writes of the 
need of the feast and receives as payment two guineas 
or ten dollars. That is what the hungry journalist 
writes it for — the fee; and, if she is honest, she will 
admit it. But, stay! along with the fee and the 
satisfaction of having earned some food for herself 
there comes the added satisfaction of having helped 
to fill other empty stomachs than her own. This is 
one of the compensations of the working, "pot- 
boiling" journalist's life. 

A few years ago when I was engaged as reporter 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 99 

on a New York paper, a girl artist and I were told 
by our editor to go out and get up a true story on 
the "Hottest Day Among the New York Poor/' for 
which we were to be paid at space-rates. The editor 
gave us an order on the cashier for some money, say- 
ing we might use it at our own discretion, as long as 
we expended it in getting him a good story and some 
good sketches — all true and no fiction. We decided 
to spend this money in buying a small load of ice to 
distribute free among the poor who lived in the worst 
section of the city. An illustrated story of how the 
poor children scrambled after the ice would, we 
thought, be sure to please the editor, so we went with 
our ice on to the East Side. 

"Please, Missus, is ye an angel, bringin' us ice all 
fer nothin', when we's so hot and it's so 'spensive?" 
asked a tiny, ragged tot, her great eyes staring with 
delighted wonder. 

"No, little girl," I said, "I'm only a reporter. I'm 
writing a story about you for my paper, and the 
other lady is making pictures for it. Stand still 
with your ice pail, like that, and let her put you into 
the picture." 

"I declare!" said the artist to me at the office, 
when at midnight we were just finishing our work, 
having had no time for either luncheon or dinner 
that day, "I'm horribly tired and ravenously hungry, 
but the memory of how those youngsters enjoyed that 
ice fairly does me good !" 

"The feeling does you credit," I laughed, "and I've 
got it too, so I take it we're both in what they call 
a 'state of grace.' " 
L.cfC. 



100 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I bring in this little New York episode here, where 
it may seem to be a digression in a chapter devoted 
to a part of my London experiences, in order to illus- 
trate what is my conception of the attitude that may 
be rightly taken by the honest working woman jour- 
nalist whose income must be derived from her pen. 

I had a code by which I justified and do now 
justify my entry into domestic service — entry even 
under what some of my critics rightly called "false 
pretenses," for I gave a false name and a false ad- 
dress, and, in order "to get the situations I obtained, 
though I told a part of the truth, I kept back a part 
of it. Again, I justified myself when I became a 
flower girl and sold flowers in the West End streets 
and in Piccadilly Circus; again, when I became a 
laundry girl and pretended to be what I was not; 
also a dressmaker's apprentice, and a crossing 
sweeper, and when I assumed the role of American 
heiress, trying to buy a pedigree and a presentation 
at court. 

These experiences came, the one after the other, in 
as quick succession as I could bring them to pass, for, 
once having made my name as the "exponent of the 
newer and American journalism" with my "In Cap 
and Apron" series, the London editors, many of 
whom were known as belonging formerly to the con- 
servative class of journalists, wrote to me and "asked 
for more." In vain did I visit many of them per- 
sonally, suggesting subjects which seemed more suit- 
able to the particular style of newspapers which they 
published and were certainly more to my own taste 
and inclination, and required less of physical strength 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 101 

and nervous energy which I knew, even without con- 
sulting a wise old British doctor who was continually 
shaking his head at me, were being all too rapidly 
used up. 

"Oh, but we do not want the ordinary sort of writ- 
ing from you," the editors would say. "You've 
started this newer and more entertaining kind of 
journalism over here, and you must keep it up." 

Then I would be offered three times the regular 
rates of the papers to tell how I went up in a balloon, 
or worked among the sweat shops. 

"But I ask only your regular rates and I really can 
write on ordinary subjects," I would answer; but 
vainly, vainly. So I prepared to go out as a flower 
girl, and, when I was all ready with my queer-looking 
costume and my basket of blossoms hanging about 
my neck, I sat down on the stairs that led from the 
flat and cried and felt I never could do it, and then 
I went back and bathed my eyes and started out 
again, and became a flower girl for a day. The next 
day I was worn out and remained in bed, also the 
next. On the third day I got up and wrote what the 
critics said was a "vivacious and entertaining ac- 
count" of my experiences. Another day was spent 
sweeping crossings, two more days in bed, a day in 
writing it, and so two articles were done for a maga- 
zine. 

One day, having heard that Mr. A. Gibbons, the 
then editor of The Lady's Pictorial, had spoken 
kindly of my work, I went to his office, and, intro- 
ducing myself to him, said, "Would you care to have 
me write something for The Lady's Pictorial?" 



102 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

"Nothing would please me better !" he exclaimed. 
"Why, I've been going to send for yon to come and 
see me these many weeks ! I expect yon're fnll of 
suggestions and ideas, so let me hear some of them." 

"I will write yon an article about girls' boarding- 
school life in America," I said. 

"No, you won't. I wouldn't look at it," he replied. 

I suggested a dozen other subjects, none of which 
met the approval of Mr. Gibbons. Finally, I said I 
would return home and communicate with him by 
letter after I had thought of some other subjects. I 
was moving towards the door when Mr. Gibbons 
jumped up. "No, indeed, you won't go home ! Sit 
you down there on that chair and put your wits to 
work and I'll put mine to work, too. If you've had 
the effrontery to come to The Lady's Pictorial with- 
out an idea in your head, you're not going to leave 
it till you get one." 

I am bound to state that I began to get a bit 
nervous, so altogether different was Mr. A. Gibbons 
from any other London editor I had met. Certainly, 
I decided that he was a character in the literary 
world of London. It was about two o'clock when I 
went into his office. He sat at his desk thinking, I 
sat at the other end of the handsomely furnished 
room, fitted up more after the manner of a drawing- 
room than an office, till four o'clock. 

Then spoke Mr. Gibbons. "Have you any ideas 
yet?" he asked. 

"No," I answered. 

"H'um ! I've heard of American cuteness, but I 
don't know, I don't know !" 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIKL" 103 

"I think I'll go now/' I said, beginning to rue the 
fancy that had made me think I could write for the 
fashionable Lady's Pictorial. "I've got an engage- 
ment." 

"You've got no engagement that's more important 
than this one. Do you have to earn your living 
writing for the papers?" 

"Yes," I said. 

"Very well! Just sit there till you think or I 
think of a subject. Of course one of us is bound to 
hit upon something." 

The hands of the clock went round, and when the 
hour of five had arrived, and I had sat waiting three 
hours for an inspiration, Mr. Gibbons exclaimed: — 

"I've beaten you! British wit is quicker than 
American ! Go down to Kent and pick strawberries 
with the common pickers and then write all about it." 

"It will be too awful ; I can't !" I answered. 

"You said you had a living to earn. This will 
help you. Good afternoon. I'll write you a letter, 
stating the terms and telling you how many 
columns." 

He shook hands with me, brusquely, yet kindly. 
In the morning there was a letter offering me the 
most liberal terms I had ever received for any Lon- 
don work. I went to Kent one night and engaged 
lodgings with a quaint little lodging-house keeper to 
whom Mr. Gibbons gave me a letter of introduction. 
The next morning at three o'clock I was gathering 
fruit with the strawberry pickers of Kent. The rain 
poured all day, but I kept at my work till eight that 
night, wet through, of course, to the very skin, and 



104 THE ATJTOBIOGKAPHY 

my shoes full of water. The next morning, waking 
with the pangs of rheumatism in every bone, a kind 
friend got me back to London, and, with Judge and 
Dinah attending me with all love and sympathy, and 
my one-time mild-mannered but now infuriated 
doctor declaring that he washed his hands forever of 
so idiotic a patient, and writing prescriptions in the 
meantime, notwithstanding, a week went by, and Mr. 
Gibbons heard nothing from me except a hastily 
scribbled note to the effect that I had done the straw- 
berry picking and would send him the manuscript as 
soon as possible. The following week I wrote up an 
account of my experiences, telling of the rainy day, 
and a few rheumatic twinges, but keeping back a 
part of the more serious results. After a part of the 
story had appeared in print, I received a peremptory 
summons to call on Mr. Gibbons. He eyed me 
fiercely, as I entered the office, and exclaimed: — 

"I want to say that I consider you've treated me 
very shabbily about that strawberry-picking affair !" 

"I don't understand!" I said, amazed. "If you 
did not like the manuscript, you ought to have told 
me so." 

"I did like it ! It's exactly what I wanted, but I 
ask you, in the name of all that's honest, did I tell 
you to go out and pick strawberries in the rain and 
run the danger of killing yourself?" 

"No, you didn't; but it rained the morning after 
I got to Kent, and, as I had engaged to go to work, 
I went." 

"Didn't I tell you I'd pay all your expenses while 
you were down there?" 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 105 

"Yes," I answered. 

"Then why didn't you stay there in the boarding 
house till a fine day came and then go and pick the 
berries? I say, why didn't you wait and take a rest 
and behave like a sensible, reasoning human being? 
Instead of that, you've got me talked about as a slave 
driver. Why, yesterday an old friend of mine, a 
doctor, called here flourishing the last copy of the 
Pictorial in my face and screaming : 'Gibbons, you're 
a brute! If that girl had died from the effects of 
picking berries in the rain, you'd have been tried for 
murder, and quite right, too!' I told him I didn't 
know what day you had picked strawberries, but I 
knew you were not so foolish as to pick in the rain. 
When I read your manuscript I thought you brought 
in the rain to make the thing dramatic. My friend 
faced me up and down that it did rain and I said it 
didn't. Now, I ask you, did it rain ?" 

"Yes, it rained," I answered. 

"Have you been ill and had a doctor's bill on 
account of it?" 

"Oh, no, of course not!" I replied, for I thought 
that here was a place where the truth need not be 
told. 

"I was going to say that of course you could add 
the doctor's bill to your expense account, if you had 
one," he returned, with a relieved expression on his 
face; "but I'm sorry you picked in the rain. Take 
better care of yourself, and hoard your strength. 
You'll need it." 

The next day I found that in order to finish the 
strawberry-picking series with satisfaction to myself 



106 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

and justice to my subject I required a column more 
space than Mr. Gibbons had agreed to pay for, and 
I wrote asking if I might be allowed to add this 
column without extra charge. His reply was char- 
acteristic: "Of course, do the extra column, and, of 
course, you will be paid for it. Herewith the check 
for all." 

Mr. Gibbons was known as "the gruffest editor in 
London," so I was afterwards told. To me he was 
one of the kindest, and I have often laughed over my 
first experience with him, — waiting three hours for 
an inspiration and then having his British acuteness 
win the contest over my American. 

One day when my first article had appeared in the 
Nineteenth Century, I called at his office and was 
greeted at the door with "Good afternoon! You've 
got a new name. Hereafter you will have dropped 
the title of The American Girl in London' and 
shall be known as 'The Frivolous Contributor of the 
Nineteenth Century!'" 

Then there was another day that I called to see 
him. I had been in America for a long time, and 
had brought back a head full of ideas that I thought 
would please him. I handed my card to the office 
boy in the little anteroom. 

"For Mr. Gibbons," I said, "and ask him, if he's 
busy now, to please make an appointment for another 
time." 

"Mr. Gibbons is dead," said the boy. 

Then I turned away, half-chokingly, as I went 
down the stairs. I had lost not only a kind and con- 
siderate editor but a good friend — one of the earliest 
of my editorial friends in London. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 107 



CHAPTER IX. 

WHY I DID NOT BECOME A SALVATION ARMY 



One of the last situations I entered in London, 
during my search for "working-girl copy," was a 
large steam laundry where I became a laundry girl. 
It was not only the beginning of the end of the 
peculiar kind of work I had taken up, but was also 
the hardest task I had ever undertaken in that line. 
The laundry was called a "sanitary" one, but it was 
in many ways the most insanitary sort of establish- 
ment I ever saw. Upon the floor of the wash-house 
part of the laundry, — where numbers of the girls, 
including myself, were obliged to walk up and down 
dozens of times a day, — water, dirty, slimy, and ill- 
smelling, always rose to the height of several inches. 
Whenever I stood or walked about, my feet slipped 
up and down in the water that penetrated into my 
boots, and so my feet, all day long, were wet far above 
my ankles. I had every reason to believe that my 
lungs were of the strongest and would allow of any 
reasonable amount of carelessness on my part, but I 
contracted a hacking cough, which, happily, did not 
last long after I made my final exit from the atmos- 
phere of soapsuds. 

While engaged at work, however, I was constantly 



108 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

in terror of getting maimed or killed with the 
machinery, and so, as I had given a 'false name and 
false address to the manageress of the laundry, I wore 
always in the locket round my neck a thin slip of 
paper, upon which I had written particulars of what 
was to be done with me should any accident be- 
fall me. 

But at the end of a little over a week's work, I left 
the laundry quite whole, and as sound in mind and 
body as one could have reason to expect after such an 
experience. The writing up of the story of my 
career as a laundry girl was all done in bed, my type- 
writer being placed on a tea-tray in front of me. 

That task accomplished, I was up again, and as 
it was not to be published for some time, and I would 
not receive any money for it till after publication, I 
looked about me for another way to earn some ready 
money. Again I made a tour of the London editors, 
with whom I had by that time become pretty well 
acquainted, suggesting subjects for articles of a dif- 
ferent nature from that with which I had started 
my career in English journalism. The editors were 
kind, but firm in expressing their opinion that it was 
foolish for me to think of doing "ordinary" things in 
journalism, when I had proved myself so capable of 
doing the "extraordinary" things. Then I attempted 
to get a position on some one of the daily or weekly 
papers at a stipulated salary, and though I was then 
talked about and written about as "one of the most 
successful women journalists in the world," I would 
gladly have accepted a weekly salary of three or four 
pounds, and I even offered my services at that price 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 109 

to several editors in turn, each of them laughing at 
what he termed "such nonsense." 

"Why/' said one of these editors to me, "you have 
introduced a bright, new, attractive kind of journal- 
ism into London and are Americanizing our papers. 
Keep it up, and you should, without the slightest 
difficulty, earn an income of at least fifteen hundred 
pounds a year." 

I was very discouraged when I left that editor's 
office, and at the bottom of the stairs I met a young 
Englishwoman writer. 

"Oh ! if you've been up there, I suppose it's no use 

for me to go and talk to Mr. about one of the 

ordinary articles I want to do for him," she said, 
laughingly. "I expect you came away with an order 
for a five hundred pound series, didn't you?" 

I laughed. "No," I said, "not quite so much as 
that. But you'd better go up and I hope you'll sell 
your article." 

She did sell it. I found that out the next week. 
Meantime, I walked over to the office of a paper that 
had recently been started, the editor of which, I 
understood, wanted me to do some of my "new kind 
of journalism" for him. 

"Take some work from you ? Certainly !" he said, 
when I had introduced myself. "Now, what haven't 
you done in London? I want something quite fresh 
and startling." 

We went over ideas and suggestions, and it was 
finally decided that I was to write up the Salvation 
Army "from the inside," which meant that I was to 
become an Army "lassie." 



110 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

"Don't go into it with the idea of an 'expose/" 
said the editor, "but join the Army just as you be- 
came a housemaid, and write up your experiences." 

Then we arranged terms, which were, if I remem- 
ber rightly, nearly four times the ordinary rates he 
paid to contributors. 

"I shall, of course," I said, "need a small amount 
of money over and above the column rate, for ex- 
penses." 

"How much?" he asked. 

"Oh, not more than three or four pounds," I 
answered. 

"Very well. I will pay you four pounds down, 
now." 

Handing me an order for that amount on the 
cashier, and bidding me buy a "uniform" with it, 
and anything else I needed for the adventure, he 
bade me farewell, till I should bring him my "copy." 
Then I went out shopping, buying thick boots, such 
as I thought I should need for "marching," and such 
other belongings as seemed suitable for a humble 
Salvation Army girl, keeping intact an amount suffi- 
cient for the purchase of the poke bonnet and dark 
blue dress, which I thought I would not get until I 
had spent a few days investigating what was the best 
way to join the Salvation Army. 

The next day I stopped in at the office of the editor 
of one of the most prominent and conservative of 
London's papers, and who, by the way, up to that 
time, was the only editor who had given me any en- 
couragement to do a different sort of work from that 
by which I had made my name, he having even gone 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 111 

so far as to take two anonymous articles from me, 
paying me at his regular rate. 

I explained that I had called to see if there were 
anything else of the sort that I could do for him, but 
there happened to be nothing on hand just then. 

"I hope you are not doing any more of that 'new 
journalism' now/' he said. 

"Yes/' I answered, "I am. In fact I am just about 
to start on what I suppose will be the biggest thing 
I have ever attempted, and will probably create the 
greatest sensation." 

"What is it?" he asked. 

"I can't tell you." 

"I wish you would tell me. Perhaps you ought 
not to do it, and, if so, I might persuade you to give 
it up." 

"Yes, I ought to do it," I answered, half-defiantly, 
"and it would not be right for you to persuade me to 
give it up. But I will tell you what it is in the 
strictest confidence, though I will not tell you the 
name of the paper I am going to do it for. I am 
going to join the Salvation Army, and write an 
account of my experiences in a poke bonnet." 

I saw a look of horror come over the kind, good 
man's face. He jumped up from his desk. 

"No ! no ! You must never do that ! It would be 
a terrible thing! Promise me you will give up that 
scheme. It is not nice. It is not dignified, and it 
will create a prejudice against you which you will 
never be able to live down." 

"But I must do it. I have engaged with an editor 
to do it. He will pay me well for it," I answered. 



112 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

"Pay you well ! He cannot pay yon well, no mat- 
ter what he offers yon! I don't ask yon who this 
editor is, bnt I do ask yon in yonr own interest, for 
your own good, to go back to him and tell him yon 
find it impossible to do this work." 

He began walking up and down his office, and, as 
he walked, he explained to me the enormity of the 
task I had undertaken. He told me I would ruin my 
whole future literary career, that I would prejudice 
all the religions people of England and even of my 
own country against me, and, as he exclaimed, "I tell 
yon you will be ruined, ruined, ruined, if you do this 
thing!" I began to get as thoroughly frightened as 
though I had been about to commit a crime; and, as 
I listened to all the dire consequences which he 
prophesied would follow in the wake of my proposed 
undertaking, my hair almost stood on end and my 
eyes fairly popped out of my head. I was almost 
tempted to give it up, when I suddenly remembered 
the money that had been advanced to me for ex- 
penses, a good part of which I had spent and had no 
means of replacing. 

"You don't understand," I said, faintly, tff but I am 
in honor bound to do it !" 

"How, in honor bound?" 

"Oh! because I promised the editor," I answered, 
evasively. 

"Go and ask him to release you. That is quite a 
permissible and honorable thing to do." 

I was passing out of the door, afraid, bewildered, 
sick at heart. 

"Promise me you will not do this thing ! Promise 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 113 

you will go to that editor, whoever he is, and ask to 
be released from this commission !" he said, solemnly, 
looking me full in the face, as he shook hands. 
"Remember, you have now come to the parting of the 
ways, and your whole future depends upon your 
giving up this Salvation Army scheme ! Up to now, 
you have amused, but never shocked, us staid Brit- 
ishers. But this thing! Well, you are not going 
to do it, are you?" 

"No, I am not going to do it," I answered. "I 
will run all the way to the editor to ask him to release 
me." I turned and new down the stairs, lest he dis- 
cover the tears I knew I was ready to shed. Then, out 
in the open air, I thought of the promise I had made 
with a sort of shock, and I felt like a criminal, who 
had taken a newspaper's money and spent it and 
could not return it, though failing, yes, refusing, to 
keep my engagement. How dared I go and say, "I 
have spent the money you advanced me for Salvation 
Army expenses, and I have no way of paying it back, 
but I will not do the work for you" ? 

What did other people do when they were in such 
straits ? Borrow ? Yes. I knew they did that. But 
I had never borrowed any money since I came to 
London, except the seven shillings from Dinah, and 
I never intended to borrow. There were periodicals 
in London at that time for which I had done some 
work which had been accepted and of which I had 
corrected the proofs. I knew my articles would be 
published some time in the future and that then I 
should get paid for them. Should I go to the editors, 
explain my necessities and ask for payment before, 



114 THE ATTTOBIOGBAPHY 

instead of after, publication? Yes, that seemed the 
sensible thing to do. I started for one of the offices, 
climbed the stairs to the editor's room, was about to 
walk in, then turned and sped down to the pavement. 
I found I could not do it. I had courage for many 
things, but not for that. 

Then I went home and slept not through the live- 
long night. But in the morning I suddenly remem- 
bered a good Irish Catholic priest whom I had met 
in one of the mining towns of Lancashire when I 
had been sent there to write up the distress among 
the strikers' families. He had been very kind to me 
in those days, and on parting, had said : — 

"Kemember, my child, if you ever get into any 
trouble and need a helping hand, just write to me 
and tell me all about it. And, see here ! I'm a poor 
man, but I sometimes have a few pounds put by, so 
if you're ever in need of a little money, just write 
and tell me." 

So I wrote to the good father all about my troubles, 
keeping back nothing, and in the end, informing him 
that I wrote as "under the seal of the confessional," 
asked him if he would lend me four pounds till the 
magazines paid up. By return of post the money 
came, and with it in my hand, I went to the office of 
the editor who wanted the Salvation Army written 
up, gave it to him and begged to be released from my 
undertaking. 

"It's all right," he said, when I began to make 
excuses. "I'm glad you've given it up. I can't 
exactly say why, but I'm glad." 

Two months later I sent four pounds and ten 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 115 

shillings to my good friend, the priest, in Lancashire, 
four pounds in return for the loan, and ten shillings 
for one of his pet charities. In reply, came this 
specimen of his ready, Irish wit: — 

"Money received. Shall be glad to lend you some 
more on the same terms ! Little Mary O^Flannagan 
is the better, for that loan to you, by a new pair of 
boots, and I have instructed two other poor little girls 
to say a prayer every night for you/' 



116 THE AUTOBIOGEAPHY 



CHAPTEK X. 



A DEAL IN ANCESTORS. 



I came to England with the knowledge that I had 
no pedigree worth speaking of on one side of me — 
the English side, that is. Perhaps I should correct 
that statement, for, of course, if I thought about the 
matter at all, I knew I did have a pedigree of some 
sort, but I did not know what sort it was, whether 
honorable or dishonorable, plebeian or aristocratic. 
The fact troubled me but little for a time. I was 
altogether too busy trying to earn my own living to 
spend time and trouble and bus fares running about 
investigating how my ancestors earned theirs, or 
whether they got it in some much less respectable 
way than earning it. I knew, however, that they 
could not have been rich, or, if they were, that they 
must have been selfish spendthrifts, since nothing in 
the way of legacies in English land or bonds had been 
handed down to me. On this account I always felt 
something of a resentment towards them, and it was 
my own private opinion that if I ever found out any- 
thing about them I should discover that not only 
financially, but socially and morally, they were a 
pretty poor lot, and I had no notion of claiming 
them. 

When I had been in England something over a 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 117 

year a relation in America, whose grandfather was 
my grandfather as well, wrote and begged me to go 
to the British Museum and hunt up some data among 
the B's in the records of the Harleian Society. I 
would there find, he said, that we had among our 
common ancestors, some knights, baronets, and 
things. With the "clew" that my relation sent me, 
I went to the British Museum, and, though I found 
the knights and baronets, I found also confirmation 
of even more than my worst suspicions concerning 
my ancestors. One had died in an almshouse; one 
had been a sort of pirate captain as far as I could 
make out; one had fought against George Washing- 
ton; concerning one there was but this simple record, 

"Born , Dyed , not worth a groat." One of 

my far-away removed grandmothers, who, horror of 
horrors! bore the very name which was bestowed 
upon me at my christening, had conducted herself in 
so shameful and disreputable a manner, that her 
"husbande," my far-away and removed grandfather, 
had compelled her to sit upon the steps of the meet- 
ing house from midday till the going down of the 
sun, publicly confessing her fault, which was, indeed, 
a most grievous one, "and the ladye," so the record 
ran, "did confesse." 

I slammed together with a bang the book that gave 
me this scandalous bit of information, and started 
back to the flat, not altogether pleased with my after- 
noon's work. I had in my purse two pounds, two 
shillings and seven pence, money for which I had 
many and very urgent uses. The distance to the 
flat was great, but I did not take a bus, thinking to 



118 THE AUTOBIOGEAPHY 

walk and save the pennies. Passing an old second- 
hand shop, I noticed some old and curious-looking 
objects in a corner near the door, and I stopped to 
examine them. They themselves proved useless, but 
back of them, in a mass of dirt and rubbish, with the 
dust of ages, as well as more modern secondhand iron 
kettles and tin saucepans piled upon it, I discovered 
a good-sized oil painting without a frame. When I 
had got the things off of it and dusted it, I discovered 
it to be the portrait of a kind-faced old gentleman, 
with brown eyes, gray hair, and an aristocratic ex- 
pression of disgust at his squalid surroundings. At 
least, that was the way he seemed to look, and one 
couldn't blame him. From the fashion of his clothes 
I fancied he had lived over a century ago and had 
been something of a swell. 

"Want that, Miss?" asked the man who kept the 
shop, noticing me at the door. 

"Oh, I don't know!" I answered. "How much 
is it?" 

"Eighteen pence !" he answered. 

I was astonished. Eighteen pence for a fine old 
oil painting! I looked at the portrait again, and it 
seemed to me the old gentleman had a pleading look 
in his eyes as though appealing to me to take him 
away from so horrible a place. "Why, you must see 
this is no place for a gentleman !" he seemed to be 
saying, "and so cheap ! Only eighteen pence ! Do 
buy me !" 

"I'll have it," I said to the secondhand man. I 
took the painting home and washed it with soap and 
then greased it and hung it on the wall, and the old 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 119 

gentleman smiled upon me and looked pleased and 
happy. The room was really a very pretty and dainty 
little place, and though perhaps in the bygone times 
he had lived in a grand old mansion, yet he must 
have felt that in becoming a part of the furnishings 
of my abode, he was coming to his own again. Before 
I hung the oil painting up the room had been merely 
pretty. Now, it took on an air of grandeur when I 
looked in that particular direction, and before I went 
to bed that night I had fallen quite in love with the 
dear old gentleman and had named him "Grand- 
father." The next morning when I went to look at 
him he was still smiling, and I smiled back, and 
Dinah remarked : — 

"I do clah, Miss Polly! Dat's de same kin' o' 
pixcher w'ich dey done hab in my ole massa's house 
in Virginny !" 

When I went out that day I passed again the old 
secondhand shop, and I stopped and peered again 
into the dark corners and on the walls, though, of 
course, I knew I must not buy anything. Hanging 
on the wall was an empty gilt frame that seemed to 
be about the size of "grandfather." 

"How much is that ?" I asked, pointing to it. 

"Well, it really aren't salable," returned the shop- 
man, "as there be'nt no pictur for it! It's sca'cely 
wuth sixpence !" 

"I'll buy it !" I said quickly, and the bargain was 
consummated. 

I afterwards discovered it was too large for the oil 
painting, so I set to work with hammer and saw to 
reduce it in size, with the result that in the evening 



120 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

"Grandfather" was framed, elegantly and properly 
as befitted him, for the frame turned out to be a 
really fine thing, after a washing and polishing, the 
sort of frame one must pay at least thirty shillings 
for if purchasing new. "Grandfather" seemed to 
smile more broadly than ever, even when Judge, 
coming upon him unexpectedly, stood before him in 
amazement and barked a full five minutes at him. 

I had hung the old gentleman's portrait directly 
over my typewriter, and all the next morning he 
smiled down upon me while I wrote my London letter 
to an American paper. His smile seemed to follow 
me out of the room and out of the flat as I went with 
my letter to the post, and after I had dropped it in 
the box I took a walk among some of the curious, 
dingy, old-fashioned streets of the West Central dis- 
trict where pawn shops, antique and secondhand 
shops abound. As I walked about and peered into 
the doors and windows I kept thinking of the pleased 
old gentleman who hung over my typewriter, and I 
said to myself: — 

"What a pity he couldn't have been one of my 
ancestors instead of those horrid creatures I've found 
out about at the British Museum! I don't believe 
he died mot worth a groat' or fought against George 
Washington, or went pirating, and I don't believe his 
wife ever had to sit on meeting house steps and con- 
fess unutterable things ! Poor old man ! I wonder 
how he got into that dirty secondhand shop, anyway, 
and got sold to me for a beggarly eighteen pence ! 
Nice old man ! If I could have had him for a great- 
great-great-grandfather, it would have been worth 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 121 

while!" After all, I thought, why not? Why not 
imagine it? Why not adopt him as a great-great- 
great-grandfather? Indeed, why not adopt a lot of 
ancestors who seemed to be a decent sort, rather than 
claim descent from those apologies for ancestors 
which I had found in the British Museum records? 
I knew plenty of my country-people adopted ances- 
tors, ancestors that weren't half so nice, in appear- 
ance, at least, as was my old gentleman. 

"I'll do it!" I exclaimed, half aloud, as I stood 
before one of the curiosity-shop windows. "I'll see 
if I can buy some more cheap. I'll fill the whole 
flat with ancestors at eighteen pence apiece." 

I looked in my purse. There were still my two 
gold sovereigns and a few coppers. The money I 
had in those days was usually spent before it was got, 
"booked ahead," as it were. The installment on my 
typewriter was nearly due, and most of what I had 
on hand I had intended to use for that. But all 
ideas of economy, sense, or reason took flight from 
my head. The desire for ancestors swallowed up all 
other desires. It became a sort of intoxication, or 
rather it became like what I fancy might be the desire 
and determination of a man to have a drink, no mat- 
ter what happened in consequence. It became a 
passion, an over-mastering one, and the only bit of 
reasoning I did was to say : "It must be I ought to do 
it, else I wouldn't feel like this ! If I want anything 
so badly as this, I ought to have it !" 

"Have you got any old oil paintings?" I asked, 
looking in at one of the shop doors. 



122 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"I don't think so, Miss. Everything I've got that's 
worth selling yon see right here exposed for view." 

"But yon might have some old things stored away. 
Won't you just look?" I answered. 

"But I know I got nothing. There were a laidy 
'ere 'arf an hour ago inquiring for frames, whether 
they 'ad pictures in 'em or not, but I didn't 'ave." 

"But I don't want frames. You might have some 
pictures without them." 

"I got an old roll o' pictures somewhere, but they're 
stuffed awiy and I don't know just where." 

"Paintings?" I asked. 

"I think they was engravings and some in what 
they call ile, too. If I tikes a lot o' trouble to find 
'em I'd want you to buy 'em." 

"Of course," I answered. 

He moved away to the back of the old shop and I 
sat myself down on a rickety stool. It was one of 
the worst and dirtiest of the secondhand shops, and 
there seemed to be less than five pounds worth of 
goods in the whole place. It must have been three 
quarters of an hour before he returned with a dirty 
roll, which he handed to me to untie and inspect. 
Sure enough, there were some oil paintings, faded, 
wrinkled and torn, among the collection. There 
were seven in all, — three men, three women and a 
child, as far as I could make out through the dirt 
that covered them. 

"How much for these?" I asked, holding up the 
seven. 

"'Arf a crown." 

I handed him a sovereign, but he declared his 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 123 

inability to change it, and asked if I would wait while 
he went to the public house with it. I fancied I 
would rather get it changed myself, so I went to the 
post office and bought some stamps, and then re- 
turned to pay over the half crown. 

All the afternoon I kept at my task of buying 
remarkable-looking oil paintings. For one that was 
stretched and in a frame I paid as high as five shil- 
lings; for some small ones I paid sixpence and ten- 
pence, for others two shillings. Finally, I had col- 
lected twenty and spent thirty-six shillings for them, 
and I called a cab because my burden was greater 
than I could bear. 

I was glad Dinah had gone for a walk with Judge 
when I returned to the flat, so that I had three hours 
for scrubbing and greasing the really disreputable- 
looking lot I had brought with me to my home. 
There were in some of them the most terrible creases. 
One gentleman with a ruffle round his neck and a 
sword in his hand, seemed to have been attacked in 
the face, for there was a hole on one side of his face 
where an eye should have been. The nose of an 
aristocratic lady, I found, was only half there, it 
having been washed and scrubbed, I supposed, many 
times before. Yet, when I had them all clean and 
had polished them up with salad oil, I was immensely 
pleased with them. For some I made frames of 
pasteboard, covered with old black silk and velvet. 
Others, after trimming the edges, I tacked directly 
on the wall, and when I got my room all embellished 
with them, removing all the other pictures from the 
sitting room, with the exception, of course, of the 



124 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

original "ancestor" I had bought at first, I must say 
I was pleased and even surprised at the effect. My 
room, that had been merely pretty before, now looked 
grand and stately, and the old gentleman over the 
typewriter smiled and smiled, and some of the rest 
of the company seemed to be smiling, too. Then I 
smiled in unison with them, and stretched out my 
hands in a sort of benediction and said : "I adopt you 
all as my ancestors ! I hope you appreciate what I've 
done for you — rescuing you from the dirtiest second- 
hand shops in London, and washing you and putting 
you in a clean, nice room. I hope you don't mind 
being adopted by me. I'm a very decent sort of 
person, and it may be you've got real descendants 
you've just as much reason to be ashamed of as I 
have to be ashamed of my real ancestors." 

And while I was declaiming to the ladies and gen- 
tlemen on the wall, my almost empty purse fell to 
the floor, and Dinah, to whom I always allowed the 
privilege of a latchkey, walked into the sitting room 
with Judge. 

"Miss Polly, what am de mattah?" exclaimed 
Dinah, looking about in amazement at the walls. 

"These are my ancestors, Dinah," I answered. 

"You don' mean dey is yo' gran'paps and gran'- 
mams f'om way back, like old Massa had in Vir- 
ginny ?" 

"Yes, Dinah," I said. 

"W'y, Miss Polly, how you done fin' 'em? Whar 
dey been ?" demanded Dinah, aghast, going up to the 
gentleman with one eye and sticking her finger in 
the hole that served for the other. 



OF A "NEWSPAPEK GIKL" 125 

"In an old, dirty shop, Dinah. I think they were 
stolen and sold, you know, and it's lucky I came 
across them." 

Dinah was not too skeptical. Poor thing ! she was 
always willing to take my word for even more than 
it was sometimes worth, and when she had examined 
each one in turn and had several times exclaimed, 
"I guess we's gittin' gran' dese days V went to her 
kitchen with more dignity and self-importance than 
I had ever seen her assume before, saying, "I 'spec' 
we's quality, ain't we, Miss Polly?" 

That night I amused myself with naming my an- 
cestors, and before I went to bed I made out a cata- 
logue of them, as one might do for a picture gallery. 
I awoke the next morning with a start, and ran into 
the sitting room to see if I had been dreaming that 
I had spent all my money in ancestors. I received 
a shock to find it was no dream, a shock that brought 
me back to the realities of life and the uselessness of 
even real ancestors for purposes of paying install- 
ments on typewriters and buying bread and meat 
and potatoes and postage stamps. Had I been mad 
the day before, and was I now "coming to"? That 
was the question I was revolving in my mind when 
Dinah, with a new dignity added to her step and a 
new look of satisfaction on her face, came in with 
my breakfast. 

That over, I dressed and went into my ancestral 
gallery and sat down at my typewriter, trying to 
think of something to write about. I could not. My 
brain seemed to have lost its cunning; my wits had 
gone a- visiting ; all joy in existence had fled. I hated 



126 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

myself for a fool and the rest of the world as knaves. 
I cursed my relation over in America for having been 
the original cause of my foolhardiness and improvi- 
dence. Thirty-six shillings worth of ancestors 
and nothing for the morrow's dinner ! Who had 
brought me to that? Who but the relation with his 
nagging letters that finally resulted in my going a 
pedigree-hunting at the British Museum, finding 
ancestors, discarding them as unworthy, and then 
spending my little all in buying for myself a more 
reputable lot? 

Were they a more reputable lot, after all ? I looked 
around at them and fell a-thinking. They seemed 
not to smile so sweetly as they had done the day 
before. Some of them, especially the gentleman 
with one eye, looked vicious; some greeted me with 
cynical, some with, I now thought, idiotic smiles. 
Even the old gentleman looked grave, as he watched 
my listless fingers move over my typewriter keys, 
bringing out upon the paper nothing more inspiring 
than the sentence I practiced when I wanted to get 
up speed for something that must be written in a 
hurry — "John quickly extemporized five tow bags/' 
Over and over again I wrote it, the sentence that 
contains every letter in the alphabet, and is therefore 
bound to bring a quick mechanical action to the 
fingers, if practiced sufficiently. I filled three sheets 
of paper with it; then I got carbon and manifolded 
it and flung the pages about the room, and at eleven 
o'clock I put on my coat and hat and went out for a 
walk, at loggerheads with myself and all the world. 

When I get into an excited state of mind, my only 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 127 

remedy is to go and "walk it off." It was so in those 
days, and I passed on to Charing Cross, along the 
Strand and to Fleet Street, with no object in view 
except to walk myself into a state of reasonableness. 
I turned into one of the streets that went towards the 
Embankment, then I turned about again, and got 
into a street I had never seen before, Dorset Street, 
and I saw hanging suspended over a door the sign, 
The St. James's Gazette. As I have said, I was at 
loggerheads with myself and the world, and here was 
the office of the paper that was always giving me 
unkind, or, at least, cutting notices ! It was one of 
the few London papers that I thought had not treated 
me fairly. It had once laughed in print because 
The Times had published my "American Girl's Reply 
to Mr. Rudyard Kipling." It had said: "The lady 
is very vague and shadowy. It is indeed very like 
reading Mr. W. D. Howells." Now, in saying this 
last, I considered The St. James's had added insult 
to injury — insult not to me, I hasten to add, but to 
Mr. Howells, whose works I had read and loved from 
my childhood up, and at whose feet I felt I could sit 
as did Saul at the feet of Gamaliel. As I was about 
to pass under the swinging sign, a sudden resolution 
took possession of me. The St. James's had treated 
me cruelly and I would go and tell the editor what I 
thought of him. I knew not the editor's name, so, as 
I handed in my card at the waiting room, I merely 
said, "I would like to see the editor." The card 
went up ; a boy came down. 

"Mr. Low will be happy to see you, Miss. Will 
you step this way ?" said the boy. 



128 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"What did you say the editor's name was?" I 
asked, sharply. 

"Mr. Sidney Low/' he returned, and then I was 
ushered into the editorial sanctum. A pleasant- 
faced gentleman arose and extended his hand, but I 
did not take it. Neither did I deign to be seated in 
the proffered chair. 

"I came," I said, trying to wither him with scorn 
and dignity, "to inquire why your paper is always 
pitching into me ? Why, if you must notice my work, 
you can't say something pleasant like the other 
papers do? What objections have you got to me?" 

"None whatever, my dear young lady, except that 
you take all your clever things to other papers instead 
of favoring The St. James's with them!" answered 
the editor, still standing and smiling. 

Did ever American man have so apt and gallant 
an answer for blustering American maiden, I won- 
der! Truly, if so, I never heard of it. And yet, I 
had heard that Englishmen were devoid of chivalry 
as compared to American men, that they had no 
pretty speeches at their tongues' ends as had my own 
countrymen. I was astonished and nonplussed into 
answering with wide-open eyes: — 

"Is that it? Is that really the reason?" 

"I give you my word it is," returned Mr. Low, 
again offering me his hand and then a seat, both of 
which I then took. "Now, I hope you have come 
with some brilliant suggestion for an article for The 
St. James's?" 

"Oh, yes ! oh, yes !" I returned, trying to be as 



OF A "NEWSPAPEK GIEL" 129 

ready-witted and save myself as well as he himself 
had done. "Let me see — I was going to ask you — I 
was going to ask you " 

Great Heavens! where was my American inge- 
nuity, my quickness in an emergency, even the good, 
common, ordinary sense that I had thought I pos- 
sessed before I went out and spent all my money on 
ancestors? What was that — ancestors? A sudden 
inspiration came ! 

"I was going to ask you if you would care for an 
article telling how easy it is for Americans to buy 
ancestors and pedigrees in London and pass them off 
for their own?" 

"What?" asked Mr. Low, looking interested. 

"If s astonishing," I continued, "how cheap old oil 
paintings can be bought, and how Americans can go 
to certain people who will manufacture pedigrees for 
them; and then, you know, American heiresses buy 
their way to court, and kiss the Queen's hand. 
American money can do anything in England." 

"How do you know that?" he asked. 

"Oh, I can prove it !" I answered readily. "Why, 
I know it's so. But I have proofs !" 

"I like that idea. It ought to make not only one, 
but several articles," said Mr. Low, when I had told 
him of some of the proofs I had ready at hand. 

I went home, in the best of humor with myself and 
all the world, and I kissed every ancestor in the flat 
and they all smiled as they had done on the evening 
before. The old gentleman looked down beamingly 
upon me as I began to write the series which de- 
scribed the power of the Almighty Dollar in London. 



130 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

It took me some days to finish it, but when it was 
written and published, and all London was talking 
about it and wondering whether it could possibly be 
true, I was able to think quite calmly over the sum 
I had expended for my ancestors. For several weeks 
I continued to work, surrounded by that noble com- 
pany of adopted forefathers and foremothers, till one 
afternoon some American friends called upon me. 

"Why, this room is quite a picture gallery, and the 
paintings are not bad, I vow!" one of them ex- 
claimed, examining them critically. "Rather ancient 
in more ways than one, some of them look ! Who are 
they?" 

"My ancestors," I answered. 

"What?" 

"Yes, my ancestors," I returned, going over to one 
of the most ancient-looking gentlemen among them. 
"I'll name them, one by one, as you point them out." 

"Well, who's this ?" nodding to the ancient-looking 
one, with a sword in his hand and a seal ring on his 
finger. 

"That," I said, "is, or rather was — for, as you can 
see, he lived in the olden times — the Duke of Banks !" 

"Duke of Banks !" he repeated, incredulously. "I 
don't know much about the English dukedoms, but 
I know there never was such a person as the Duke 
of Banks." 

"And Braes!" I went on, appearing not to notice 
his interruption. "He was a Scotchman, was my 
ancestor, the Duke of Banks and Braes. You know 
the song about the 'banks and braes of Bonnie Doon/ 
don't you? Well, you see " 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 131 

I was not allowed to finish my enlightening expla- 
nation of the origin of my surname, for I was again 
interrupted with shouts of derisive laughter from the 
whole company. Then I told the truthful account 
of my search after ancestors, which had ended in my 
buying, at a bargain (I did not tell how cheaply), a 
job lot, and adopting them. 

"What will you take for them?" said one of my 
visitors. 

"A hundred dollars !" I answered, in jest. 

"All right! I'll buy them at that price, and take 
them back to New York as a speculation." 

And the next day my walls were cleared of oil 
paintings, and the other and daintier pictures put 
back in their places, and with twenty pounds in my 
hand, besides the check for my articles in The St. 
James's, I felt that I had made rather a profitable 
deal in Ancestors. 



132 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 



CHAPTER XI. 

A MIDNIGHT HOLOCAUST. 

"A gentlum is waitin' to see yo', Miss Polly ! He 
done been a waitin' dese two hours an' a half, an* I 
done say yo' be late, but he say nebber min', an' so 
he settin' down." 

Thus was I greeted by Dinah one winter evening 
when, returning from some business that had kept 
me late, she answered my knock at the flat door. 

"What is his name, Dinah ?" I asked. 

"I dunno, Miss Polly." 

"Didn't you ask his name?" 

"Oh, yes, I ax him two, tree time, an' he say nebber 
min', no mattah 'bout de name." 

I stepped into the sitting room, and immediately 
there rose a tall, commanding-looking man, with a 
face that immediately I hated, though I did not 
know why. 

"You have waited to see me ?" I inquired. 

"You are Miss Elizabeth Banks, the American 
journalist?" he asked, answering my question by a 
question. 

"Yes. And you?" 

He handed me a card. 

"I don't think I am acquainted with you," I said, 
looking at the name on the pasteboard. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 133 

"Perhaps not, but that does not matter. I am but 
an emissary from one whose name, at least, you may 

know very well. You know , or rather you 

know of him, and would perhaps know his signature, 
if you saw it ?" 

He mentioned the name of a very prominent and 
wealthy person, and I answered, "Yes." 

"Very well. He is not in London, at present, else 
he would probably try to make his arrangements with 
you in person, and, as this is a matter he wishes hur- 
ried up, he has delegated me to act as his representa- 
tive. I have a letter with me that will prove to you 
that I come from him, and I am also authorized to 
act for him financially in this matter." 

"I don't think I understand you. I have never 
had any business dealings with the person you speak 
of; I do not know him personally and he does not 
owe me any money." 

"Certainly not ! But he now has a business propo- 
sition to make to you, something very advantageous 
to both you and himself. Would you mind if I closed 
the door, so that your servant may not hear our con- 
versation ?" 

"I don't think it matters, but you may close it if 
you wish," I replied. 

The door was closed, and the man continued. 

"I take it that you are a hard-working, struggling 
American girl trying to make your way in London 
by newspaper work, that your income is derived 
wholly from your work, that you are just getting 
your start and are not too rich and prosperous?" 

"I don't know why you should trouble yourself to 



134 THE ATTTOBIOGKAPHY 

think about it at all, but as the situation you describe 
is not one of which any woman need be ashamed, I 
will admit it is the true one." 

"I did not mean to be rude or even to try to pry 
into your affairs, but I wanted to be sure that you 
were in need of money before I told you the means of 
obtaining it. Now, you have written for one of the 
English papers a description of your posing as an 
American heiress, telling how much you discovered 
it would cost a rich, American girl to get introduced 
into the highest circles of society and presented to 
the Queen. You say in your articles that you adver- 
tised, as a rich American girl, for a chaperon of 
social distinction, to take you in charge, and that you 
received in answer to your advertisement a large 
number of letters from very well-known persons 
offering to chaperon you and introduce you at court, 
giving their terms; also letters from aristocratic 
Englishmen who offered to marry you if you had a 
large enough fortune." 

"Yes," I said. 

"The letters bore the names, the crests, and the 
addresses of the distinguished persons themselves?" 

"Yes." 

"What have you done with those letters?" 

"Some I returned to the writers, who wrote re- 
questing them. Many of them I still have." 

"I came to buy those letters." 

"They are not for sale," I said, laughing. 

"Plenty of things are not for sale until a pur- 
chaser comes." 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 135 

"What interest has the man who sent yon here got 
in those letters?" I asked. 

"I can't explain to yon the interest he has, bnt it 
is a very large one, especially if they have among 
them letters that he has good reason to suspect are 
there. Anyway, he's willing to take the risk, and 
he authorized me, as you see by this note, to offer 
you a reasonable, I may say a large, sum for them." 

"What does he want to do with the letters?" I 
asked. 

"That is something I can't tell you, and it ought 
not to interest you, but I can assure you that it will 
be a matter kept strictly private, and your name will 
not be brought into it. Now, will you name your 
terms, and if they are anywhere within the bounds of 
reason, they shall be complied with. I will put the 
amount in this check, get it cashed, and pay you in 
gold." 

"You have told me all you have to tell me?" I 
asked, rising. 

"I think that is about all. Now, will you name 
your terms?" 

"I have no terms, and I will now have to bid you 
good evening!" I answered, and I went towards the 
door to call Dinah to show him out. 

"You mean to say you refuse to sell those letters 
that are not of the slightest use to you?" he ex- 
claimed, jumping up in astonishment. 

"I count myself an honest and honorable woman, 
so naturally I don't stoop to this kind of negotiation. 
As soon as you began to speak of the letters, I felt 
instinctively what you wanted, and I would have 



136 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

told you to go at once, only I wished to find out what 
your scheme was." 

"You are too poor and too much of a beginner to 
be so scrupulous. Don't think because you've made a 
name in London that you will have no more troubles 
in life. The time may come when you'll get hungry 
in this big city. A thousand dollars or so doesn't 
drop into a woman journalist's hands very often." 

"Oh! I don't know! A thousand dollars or so, as 
you call it, can very often fall into the hands of the 
woman journalist who is willing to sell her honor 
for it. As for getting hungry in London, I've had 
that experience already, and I suppose, if necessary, 
I can have it again." 

I went to the door and called to Dinah. 

"Dinah, show the gentleman out." 

"Just one minute !" he said, hurriedly, as Dinah 
made her appearance. "Will you give me this infor- 
mation? Have you got among those letters one 
from ?" 

When he mentioned the name, I answered, "No; 
I will assure you that I have no letter and never so 
much as heard of the person you mention." 

It was a lie, for I recognized the name immediately 
as the signature to a letter which I received in an- 
swer to my advertisement. I hold that there are 
times when to tell the truth is to commit a dishonor- 
able act, and to tell a lie is to act righteously. It is 
when the truth will betray the innocent and the lie 
will save. This was one of the cases where I justi- 
fied a lie. Had I simply refused to answer, the man 
would have believed there was such a letter, but in 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 137 

looking him squarely in the face and telling him 
there was not, I think he believed me. 

He left me, saying, "If you change your mind, you 
have my address." 

I cannot say that I had passed through a tempta- 
tion, nor that it could be in any way accounted to 
me for righteousness that I had refused to become a 
blackmailer or assist in what was doubtless a black- 
mailing scheme. There was no hesitation nor ques- 
tion in my mind as to what one could do in such a 
case if one possessed only the most ordinary ideas of 
honor and decency, so with the exception of a feeling 
of indignation that such a proposal should have been 
made to me, I went to bed calmly enough that night, 
and to sleep. 

I awoke just as the clock out in the kitchen struck 
two, with a cry of horror, and then a prayer of grati- 
tude. "Thank God, it was a dream, only a dream !" 
I said as I jumped from my bed and made my way 
in the dark to light the candles on my dressing table. 

Judge sprang from the couch where he had been 
sleeping, to inquire the meaning of my striking of 
matches and lighting the room at so solemn and 
ghostly an hour. There was not a sound in the street 
and none in the flat except that which I made with 
my bare feet on the rugs, as I ran to my desk, drew 
out a tin box and took from it a bundle of letters, all 
securely tied together. 

"We must burn them, Judge," I said, "every one !" 

For I had seen in a dream a vision of those letters 
on a missiqn, fiendish and hellish in its intention, 
and always in the dream was the face of the man who 



138 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

had called on me that evening. In his hands he held 
the letters, and I, looking on, knew not how he had 
got them, but in my dream I thought, "If I had only 
burnt them, he never would have found them !" And 
as I awoke, the cry I made was, "Burnt ! burnt ! they 
should have been burnt!" 

I am not a particularly superstitious person, but 
I am a believer in my own premonitions, in the in- 
stincts of my dog and in warnings that come to me 
in dreams. Most of my dreams are like other peo- 
ple's dreams — without rhyme or reason; but occa- 
sionally I have had dreams which I have felt sure 
were intended as messages to give me happiness or 
success, or to save me great trouble or regret, and 
those I never disregard. 

Therefore, when I awoke from my dream-horror 
that night, I doubted not that I must immediately 
burn the letters which I had been asked to sell. I 
sat down on the floor and untied them. There were 
eighty-three in all, four having been returned to the 
writers by request. 

I took them all out of the envelopes, and put the 
envelopes in a pile. Then I spread each letter out 
upon the floor, one after another, row upon row, in 
a sort of semicircle, before the fireplace. The room 
was cold, and I shivered, but having recovered from 
the horror of my dream, and accepting it merely as 
a suggestion as to the course I should pursue in 
regard to the letters, I had no notion to dump them 
all into the grate together and burn them like ordi- 
nary fuel. It was my mood, too, that Judge should 
officiate at the holocaust, so when I had lighted one 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 139 

letter and it had blazed up and turned to black, I 
said : — 

"Now, Judge! Number one!" pointing to the 
letter farthest away. 

Judge trotted over to the letter which I designated, 
brought it in his mouth, wagged his tail and dropped 
it into my lap. I threw it into the fire. 

"Number two !" I called out, and again Judge, 
obedient, though bewildered, brought me the second 
one. 

"Number three !" 

"Aha!" I looked at it and laughed. It was from 
a very distinguished personage, indeed — the letter 
which my caller had asked if I had got, and I had 
said I had not ! It blazed beautifully and I warmed 
my hands over the pretty-colored flame. 

Judge brought me the letters now without my call- 
ing out or pointing. He had heard me laugh when 
I burnt number three, and, concluding that we were 
in for a joke on somebody, and being always a jolly 
dog when the occasion demands it, he entered into 
the spirit of the thing right heartily, trotting back 
and forth with the letters faster than I could burn 
them. 

One after another, tenderly, carefully, I dropped 
the dainty missives into the blaze, which sprang up 
renewed and more brilliant as I added to the fuel. 
The rooms became illumined with glory; vari-colored 
flames shot forth from the tops of the letters as their 
many-shaded crests and coats of arms were caught by 
the fire. So bright was the room with the burning 
that the light from my two candles first grew dim 



140 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

and then showed not at all in the greater illumina- 
tion that enveloped them. 

When the letters were all burnt, I dropped in the 
envelopes, and again the pretty-colored flames darted 
from about the seals. 

Three o'clock struck, then three-thirty, and there 
remained of the letters upon which so high a price 
had been set, nothing but black sheets, which I took 
in my hands and crumbled to ashes. 

Again the light of the candles shone forth, dimly, 
compared with the greater glory that had passed, and 
Judge and I sat before the fireplace till I fell asleep 
to dream only the commonplace dreams brought by 
health and an unburdened mind. 

So perished those strangely confiding letters which 
certain members of the British aristocracy wrote to 
an unknown American woman advertising her desire 
for an entrance into the highest society of England, 
for a consideration. 

When Dinah came in at eight o'clock I was in bed 
and ready for my breakfast. 

"Oh, Miss Polly!" she said, "it war a col' night, 
las' night, and de win' it do howl fit to wake de dead, 
an' I do clah," she exclaimed, going over towards the 
fireplace, "yo' whole grate an' tiles is dat frill ob black 
specks an' sootses, w'ich mus' hab come down by de 
win' from other chimbleys, an' I got to go to work 
now an' cleah it up. Dis yer town am a wicious 
town, an' as full ob dirt as it am full ob sin." 

"That's true, Dinah," I said, as I drank my coffee. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER "GIRL" 141 



CHAPTER XII. 

ON" THE BRINGING OUT OF A FIRST BOOK. 
SOME LEAVES FROM A DIARY KEPT IN THOSE DAYS. 

September lJ+tli, 1891+ — My book is published and 
I have not been so happy since I came to London. I 
never quite realized how lovely a thing it was to be 
the author of a book till I got two dozen copies to- 
night from the publishers. I've been so happy I 
have cried and laughed alternately all the evening. 
I spread the whole two dozen on the floor and exam- 
ined every one over and over again. I have given 
Dinah one, and written my name in it. I told Judge 
to pick out whichever one he wanted and bring it to 
me and Fd write his name in it. He grabbed one 
by a cover and brought it over and laid it in my lap, 
and I have written his name in it and sewed linen 
over it, so he won't get the coloring from the picture 
cover in his mouth. 

I have spent all the evening reading the book 
through again, though, of course, I knew everything 
in it by heart. I shall take one to bed with me and 
read by the candle till I go to sleep. 

September 15th — I went out this morning at eight 
o'clock to see if my book was prominently displayed 
on all the stalls of the underground and in the shop 



142 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

windows. It was too early, and none of the stalls 
and shops were open. I went out again at nine 
o'clock and it was still too early. At ten I bought a 
ticket at the underground that would take me round 
the circle and I got out at every station and looked 
for my book on the stalls. It was nowhere to be seen. 
I spent six shillings cab fare and two shillings bus 
fare going about to the shops to look for the book, 
but there wasn't a sign of it. At several of the shops 
I asked if they had it, and they said they hadn't 
heard of it. I suppose if s a failure and nobody will 
buy it. I never have known such unhappiness in 
my life, it seems to me. 

September 16th — I have been to all the stalls and 
book-shops again and no signs of the book. I went 
this afternoon to see the publisher and asked him 
what was the matter that none of the shops had my 
book. He said it was only published on the 15th, 
and it wasn't time yet. 

September 17th — The book was not at the stalls or 
shops again to-day and I went to the publisher 
again. I burst out crying when I got to his office. 
The publisher explained that it was all right, and 
that books were not displayed till several days after 
publication. He told me I could not expect things 
to move along in England the way they did in the 
United States. 

September 18th — There's nearly a column review 

of my book in the . I've been out again and 

the book is nowhere to be seen. 

September 20th — The book is everywhere. I saw 
it at the underground station when I took my ticket 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 143 

for round the circle. I got out at every station and 
found it prominently displayed except in two stalls. 
At both places there were other books in front of it. 
One of the books in front of mine was six shillings. 
I bought it, so mine would show. I couldn't afford 
it, but I didn't know of any other way to get mine a 
front place. At the next station where I could not 
see my book I asked the boy for it. He handed it to 
me, so of course I had to buy it, but, when he wasn't 
looking, I pulled out a second one of my books from 
the back row and placed it right in front of all the 
others. 

September 25th — The book is now at all the shops 
and is in Mudie's front window. The papers are 
treating me well. 

October What the difficulty is in America I 

cannot understand. I expect to make more money 
there than in England. 

December The book is out in America, but 

there is no copyright on it. I have tried my best to 
understand what all the trouble has been about, but 
I've been all this time getting a glimmer of the mean- 
ing of the copyright law. All I can say is that it is 
unjust and cruel, especially to me, an American 
woman. I expected to make plenty of money in my 
own country by the publication of my experiences in 
England. I thought I would make as much as a 
thousand dollars. 

January - I've just lost a chance of earning a 

lot of money. A man called this afternoon to ask 
if I would go into the music halls and "do a turn" as 
he called it. He said I was now the talk of London, 



144 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

and if I would sing a song about the American lady 
journalist, telling about my experiences as a servant, 
flower girl, crossing sweeper, and all the other things, 
illustrating each kind of work with a change of cos- 
tume and making gestures as though scrubbing, hold- 
ing out flowers, wielding a crossing broom, and so 
forth, I'd make a great hit. He said that after sev- 
eral weeks in London I could go over and "do" 
America. He tried my voice, sitting down at the 
"tin pan" and asking me to sing something. I sang 
one of Dinah's negro songs, and Judge joined in the 
way he always does when there's any music. He said 
I had the sort of voice that would take in the halls, 
and that I could take Judge on the stage with me. 
He would advertise us as the American lady- jour- 
nalist and her poodle. He said I had some talent for 
acting — that I must have a great deal, else I couldn't 
have done the real things in life that I've done. He 
suggested a beginning in the halls and then going 
into comedy as a soubrette. I considered his propo- 
sition very seriously, for I'm very much in need of 
money just now, but I have decided against it. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 145 



CHAPTER XIII. 

AN AMERICAN - MILLIONAIRE HUNTS ME UP. 

"Deer Miss: will You plese be so good as to let 
me Com and see You as I am Interest in A Magazin 
and would like to Talk to You about Working for It. 
I will Call when it is Most convenent for You to see 
me if You will write me where You reside. I send 
this to the Publishers of your Book to be forwarded 
as I do not know where you Reside. 

"I am Most Respectfully 

"Ebenezer Emmett ." 

I tossed the letter into my wastebasket and with 
an exclamation of anger and disgust gave my type- 
writer such a loud-sounding bang as made Dinah, 
who was dusting in the same room, turn round anx- 
iously and say: — 

"I hopes, Miss Polly, dey ain't no bad noos ?" 

"No, Dinah," I answered, "only an impertinent, 
illiterate man who has read my book, wants to get 
acquainted with me, and he's written to find out 
where I live, so he can call." 

"Lemme see dat lettah, Miss Polly, an' ef he give 
his directions, I hab a min' to go callin' on him an' 
ax a explanation of his conduc' !" 

"It's there in the basket, Dinah. Pick it up and 
read it, if you want to," I returned indifferently. 



146 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Dinah picked up the objectionable missive and 
proceeded laboriously to read it. 

"I don' see nothin' wrong wid dat lettah, Miss 
Polly/' she remarked, when she had got about half 
through it. "He do seem to live at a right quality- 
like hotel, an' he say he hab a magzeen w'ich he want 
yo' to work fer ! Ain't yo' open to magzeen work, 
Miss Polly ? Ain't yo' done tol' me w'en yo' got lots 
dat kin' of work to do, yo'd make moah money an' 
pay me fl' dollars a week?" 

"But, Dinah, you don't understand, because you 
are not an educated person," I said, with dignity. 
"No man who writes like that can have anything to 
do with a magazine." 

Dinah did not heed me. She had evidently got to 
the bottom of the letter, for I heard her muttering 
to herself over and over again : — 

"Ebenezah Emmett, Ebenezah Emmett ! 'Spec' I 
seen dat name befoah !" 

"Miss Polly," she said finally, "don't yo' reckon 
dat name seem f amiliah-like ?" 

"I don't think so, Dinah," I replied. 

"But I be sho' I know dat name !" she insisted. 
"Seems like it hab somet'ing to do wid cookin'." 

With that she started for the kitchen. There came 
the sound of rattling among dishes, saucepans and 
tins, and Dinah saying several times, "I 'low it mus' 
beheah!" 

Suddenly a scream of delight came from the 
kitchen. 

"Oh, honey, I done foun' it! Heah it am on de 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 147 

tin can! Ebenezah Emmett, packer! It am de cod- 
fish man in 'Meriky !" 

I rushed out to find the kitchen in an uproar. All 
the contents of the cupboard were spread, out in con- 
fusion on the table and floor, and in the midst, doing 
an amateur "cake-walk," was Dinah, hugging a blue 
tin can on which ran the legend, printed in gay 
colors, "Salt Codfish. Ready for immediate use. 
Price 25 cents. Ebenezer Emmett, Packer. U. S. A." 

"Didn't I tol' yo' it was f amiliah-like ?" exclaimed 
Dinah. "Ain't I used dis goods fo' picked-up codfish 
an' Sunday mo'ning breakfas' fish-balls, evah sence 
I was cookin' f er a livin' ? W'y, Miss Polly, dat Mis- 
tah Emmett mus' be wuf millyuns of dollahs, cause 
ev'ybody uses his codfish!" 

Sure enough, now that I saw the name in print, 
I knew Ebenezer Emmett's codfish as a household 
necessary, but I could not believe that the man who 
packed those tins and the man who wrote the letter 
to me, could possibly be the same. 

"I'm sure they can't be the same, Dinah," I said, 
discouragingly. "The man who wrote that letter 
couldn't have anything to do with a magazine, and 
the rich codfish man would know how to write a 
proper letter, or have a secretary to write for him. 
No, it is somebody else of the same name, or some- 
body has used the name to attract my attention and 
make me answer." 

"Miss Polly!" said Dinah, solemnly, "I'se older 
dan yo', I is, an' done hearn tell in 'Meriky of rich 
men w'ich couldn't write dey names ! Dey is called 
selfmadem !" 



148 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Dinah's method of reasoning was beginning to 
have an effect on me. Might not Ebenezer Emmett, 
the great millionaire,, be a self-made man? 

"Dinah, let me see that letter again/' I said. 

She passed it over, and I read aloud, musingly — ■ 
"as I am Interest in a Magazin " 

"He doesn't say he's going to edit it/' I reflected. 
"Perhaps some one else is the editor, and Ebenezer 
Emmett only owns it." 

"I'll answer the letter, Dinah," I said, as I left 
the kitchen. "I'll tell him he may call to-morrow 
afternoon, and if he's not the codfish man at all, I'll 
cough very loud and you must ring the messenger 
call for a policeman to arrest him." 

So I wrote a dignified letter, which could not pos- 
sibly be misconstrued by any bold adventurer seek- 
ing the acquaintance of a defenseless American girl 
in London : — 

"Dear Sir: If you wish me to do some work for 
your magazine, I shall be pleased to see you at this 
address at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon, when 
we can talk the matter over. 

"Very truly yours." 

"Mistah Ebenezah Emmett !" 

Dinah was looking her very best and trimmest the 
next afternoon when she announced the millionaire. 
To my utter amazement and delight she had secretly 
donned the despised streamered cap, which always 
before she had steadfastly refused to wear. She had 
also squeezed herself into a much tighter fitting dress 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 140 

than usual, and was as smart, haughty, and dignified 
in her demeanor as any British parlor maid could 
possibly have been. Nevertheless there was on her 
face a self-satisfied, "I done tol' yo' so" look as, with 
what appeared to be a much-practiced bow and 
courtesy, she ushered into our little sitting room a 
well-dressed elderly American man, who carried his 
silk hat not quite familiarly, yet not awkwardly. He 
was perhaps sixty-five or seventy, with kindly blue 
eyes that shone through his spectacles, and a long 
white beard. 

He was a very agreeable surprise to me, this mil- 
lionaire, who had written so grotesque a letter. 
There was no sign of commonness or vulgarity in his 
appearance, and his bearing and manner were those 
of the hearty, whole-souled gentleman. When he 
talked there was only occasionally to be detected a 
slight deviation from the strictly grammatical. His 
voice was pleasant, though there was in it a sugges- 
tion of the "down-East" drawl often noted among 
New Englanders. 

"I've been going to write to you for some time," 
he said, when I had given him a real American 
rocking-chair to sit on, "but I'm not much at letter- 
writing, so I put it off and off, and as I'm going to 
leave England next week, I made up my mind I'd 
do it, and hoped you'd excuse all the mistakes of an 
old man that didn't have the school advantages he'd 
ought to when he was young. I always take my sec- 
retary about with me to attend to letters and things, 
but two weeks ago he was taken sick and had to go 



150 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

away from London, so that's how it was I had to do 
my own writing." 

I felt myself growing red for shame when I thought 
of the way I had first received his letter, and I won- 
dered if the good man could possibly have an instinc- 
tive knowledge of the whole affair, but he went on : — 

"Though I'm not much on writing, I'm great on 
reading, and I always keep a lookout in the news- 
papers ; so once I read a letter in an American paper 
giving a description of the Tower of London. I'd 
never been to London then, but I'd read a great deal 
about that old Tower and it was all such prosy, dry- 
bone reading, that I was very much surprised to find 
this letter so bright and funny. I hadn't supposed 
there was anything for comic writing in that sub- 
ject, but this article made the tears come into my old 
eyes for laughing." 

"Oh ! oh !" I exclaimed, "was it really funny, Mr. 
Emmett? I was very unhappy when I wrote that 
letter." 

The old man chuckled. "It was a good one !" he 
said. "But what do you suppose? The very next 
day after I read that Tower article, I happened to 
see a book with a picture cover on it, and your name ! 
I bought that book at once, and, as soon as I began to 
read it, I knew it was by the same girl who had writ- 
ten about the Tower. There was a picture of you in 
the front of it, too, and I didn't think you was quite 
such a happy-looking little girl as you ought to be, 
though you did write such bright and happy things. 
Then all through the book I'd seem to read between 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 151 

the lines, and what I read between the lines worried 
me. Yes, it did! 

"I said to myself, 'There's a little American girl 
over in England working night and day to earn a 
living! I wonder if she made plenty of money out 
of that book. If she didn't, she'd ought to, and 
what's the matter with me putting her on to some- 
thing she can make money out of?' I made up my 
mind I'd hunt her up when I went to England, and 
that's what I've done, you see." 

My brain was beginning to whirl in anticipation 
of what this man of millions was intending to do for 
me. Was he going to adopt me and make me the 
heiress of the codfish factory ? Once, a more unpleas- 
ant thought came into my head — was he going to 
propose to me — this rich man who might almost have 
been my grandfather ? Dear me ! What could I 
possibly say if he should turn suddenly and remark, 
"Will you marry me?" Then I remembered that he 
had spoken of a magazine in his letter. Yes, that 
was it ! He wanted me to do some magazine work — 
just exactly what he said. 

He pulled from his pocket a package of notices 
and spread them before me. 

"You see how I've kept track of you," he said. 
"These are things I've read in the papers about you. 
I took a sort of interest, you know." 

"It is very kind in a great man like you to be inter- 
ested in me and my work," I said lamely. I really 
was at a loss for words, and began to wish the con- 
versation would take a more businesslike turn. It 
did, for his next remark was : — 



152 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"You've noticed these sidewalk artists over here in 
London, I suppose? Well, now, we don't have any- 
thing like that in America. Have you ever written; 
an article about them ?" 

"No, I never did," I answered. 

"That's where I'm ahead of you," he laughed, "for 
as soon as I saw them I thought they ought to be 
written about. I'd like you to write me a magazine 
article about them, if you will." 

"I'll do it to-morrow," I returned, "but I forgot to 
ask you which magazine it was that you wished me to 
work for. What is the name of it, and who is the 
editor?" 

"Oh, my magazine? I'm just going to start one 
and I haven't got the staff picked out yet." 

Mr. Emmett began looking about the room, exam- 
ining the pictures and the furniture. 

"Do you like to live in England better than in 
America?" he asked. "You wouldn't rather live in 
your own country, I suppose? You're quite settled 
down here?" 

"Yes, I think so. At least I want to live in Eng- 
land for several years yet, and I want to travel and 
go all over Europe and then to Palestine and Egypt, 
when I have made enough money, writing." 

"Yes," he resumed, as though he had not been ask- 
ing a question, "I was speaking about the magazine 
I expect to start in London. There's a great field 
for it, I'm told, and I shan't lose any money, I know. 
There's the staff to be picked out, and the name to be 
decided on and then the editor, and all that. Did 
you ever edit a magazine?" 



OF A "NEWSPAPEK GIKL" 153 

"No, I never did, but I edited a society page once 
in America. I suppose yon will have a very eminent 
literary man for yonr editor, and I hope he will like 
my article about the sidewalk artists." 

Suddenly an intuition of what this millionaire 
intended to do came to me like a flash. He was 
going to start a magazine, and I was to be the editor. 
He had not said so, but I knew it. 

"I'll have to write some long letters to you when 
I go back to America, and I'll get these things about 
the magazine ship-shape when I can find a man for 
business manager who'll look after my interests all 
right. Now, about that article you are to do for the 
first number. You'll need cab fares and have other 
expenses, so I'll just pay you this twenty-five dollars 
now as a little advance on account of expenses." 

He laid a five pound note on the table and rose to 
go. I was not accustomed to getting paid in advance 
for something I had not done, and at first I de- 
murred, but he insisted that five pounds would not 
pay nearly all the expenses connected with the article, 
and finally, much to his amusement, I wrote out a 
receipt which I had difficulty in getting him to 
accept. "Keceived from Ebenezer Emmett, Esq., 
five pounds, the same being some advance money on 
account of expenses for article about sidewalk artists 
to be done for his magazine." 

"I'll write to you from America," he said, as he 
bade me good-bye, "and if you want to ask any ques- 
tions, write to me at my factory and mark it 'per- 
sonal.' But I'll be back in England before many 
weeks and then I'm going to fix up the magazine." 



154 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

He was gone, and I, joyous, elated, full of hope, 
with happiness in my heart and a five-pound note in 
my hand, stood trembling and smiling when Dinah 
rushed in to hear the news, with her eyes shining and 
her streamers flying. 

"Oh, Miss Polly! He war de millyunaire man, 
wa'n't he? He do put up codfish, don't he? He do 
hab a magzeen, don't he?" cried she. 

"Oh, Dinah!" I screamed, laughing and crying at 
the same time, "he is the codfish man and he gave me 
five pounds on account for an article about sidewalk 
artists, and he's coming back to London to start a 
new magazine and I'm to be the editor of it, and we 
shall be very rich !" 

"Hurray! Hurray! Shout de Jubilee," cried 
Dinah, dancing about the room with her hands on 
her hips. "I done tol' yo' so, Miss Polly ! Hi, yi ! I 
see de money bein' used fer to kindle kitchen fires 
wid ! I see I bein' yo' perfessed cook wid a w'ite trash 
kitchen-maid underneaf me ! Oh ! de time o' Jubilee 
am come !" 

How we danced for joy, we three — Judge and old 
Dinah and I ! What promises I made to them both ! 
Judge was to have a winter poodle-coat, made to 
order by a French dog-tailor and need no longer dis- 
port himself in a homemade one cut out and stitched 
by his loving mistress. Dinah was to have the purple 
hat she coveted on the Kensington High street, if she 
would promise not to wear it when she went out with 
me. I was to wear wonderful gowns from Paris and 
have a hat for each gown. I would ride through 
Hyde Park in a victoria, with Judge on the seat 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIKL" 155 

beside me, resplendent in a necktie he need not share 
with anybody, and Dinah might go too, sometimes, 
and sit with her back to the horses, and everybody 
would say, "There goes the editress of the Thingymy- 
gig Magazine r 

We all three went out that evening and spent the 
five pounds in the most absurd purchases and Dinah 
cooked a nine-course dinner. 

The day following I began immediately on the 
pavement-artist article, interviewing all those who 
made pictures along the curb, diving deep into the 
history of the industry. I spent days in the investi- 
gation of how the artists lived and where. How 
much money they took in and all about them. I 
wondered if I should not engage an eminent artist to 
illustrate my article for me, and wrote to Mr. Em- 
mett for his opinion on the subject. I also asked 
whether I should send my article, when completed, 
to him, or wait for him to come to London. 

Three weeks, then a month, then five weeks, passed, 
and, as no reply came, I decided that Mr. Ebenezer 
Emmett was coming to London and so did not write. 
I worked hard on other articles, I planned the kind 
of magazine I should run, I made up my mind to 
give a position on the staff to a little English jour- 
nalist I often saw walking on Fleet street, looking 
so very shabby and forlorn. 

One day I opened a package of American papers 
several weeks old. They had somehow been delayed 
in reaching me from the other side. On the first 
page I read a headline — "Death of Ebenezer Emmett, 



156 THE AUTOBIOGEAPHY 

the great millionaire." He had died two weeks after 
I saw him. 

My little dream was over. I was again a strug- 
gling journalist in London. The romance of the 
philanthropic millionaire and the poor working girl 
was, after all, only a story book occurrence, and I 
had no right to expect my life to be like a story book. 
I would not be the popular, much sought-after "girl- 
editor" of a magazine ! I must work my way up 
steadily, day by day, week by week, year by year, and 
when youth had gone and middle age had set in and 
I wore glasses and had streaks of gray in my hair 
and could not wear the bright-hued gowns from Paris 
and the gauzy hats to match — why then, perhaps, 
who knew? Might there not possibly come the edi- 
torship of a magazine? 

I sobbed, and my dog came over and licked my 
hand. 

"Miss Polly, de doughnuts am done, an' — oh, I do 
clah to goodness ! Somet'ing hab happened ! Ain't 
de millyunaire man writ j^et?" Dinah stood in the 
doorway with a dish of American doughnuts in her 
hands. 

"He is dead, Dinah, and we are poor again!" I 
answered. 

I said "poor again," for truly I had been rich the 
hour before! 

"We ain't rich no moah? Oh, Miss Polly, but he 
war a good man, I reckon, but o' course ef he die " 

"Yes, Dinah, he was a good man. He was one of 
God's gentlemen," I said. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 157 



CHAPTER XIV. 

THE DEPARTURE OF DINAH. 

It was several weeks after the news of the death 
of the American millionaire reached me, and I had 
settled down again to the quiet working and hoping, 
by which, after all, the vast majority of the ambitions 
must reach their goal, when Dinah got a letter 
through the American mail. She had threepence to 
pay on it, because only a common two-cent stamp 
had been stuck to it when it had left the little Ala- 
bama post office where it had been postmarked. 

I was in the kitchen when Dinah got it and, when 
she read it, I noticed only a slight rolling of her eyes 
which showed some sort of repressed feeling, and that* 
was all. She went about her work that day as usual, 
cooking and sweeping and dusting, and frequently 
there burst from her snatches of half-tearful, half- 
joyous negro melodies. At first I thought that, in 
her quaint phraseology, "religion had got hold of 
her," for she sang of the Judgment Day, chariots of 
fire, and the demand by Moses of Pharaoh that he 
should "let my people go." Towards luncheon time 
the religious songs had ceased, and from the kitchen, 
drowning the clatter of pots and pans and kettles, 
there came the sweet strains of the "Dixie Song." 



158 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Dinah's voice rolled and swelled, though it seemed 
to me there were times when it almost choked. 

"I'se gwine back to Dixie, — 
No more I'se gwine to wander, 

My heart's turned back to Dixie, — 
I can't stay here no longer. 

I miss de ole plantation, 

My home an' my relation, 

My heart's turned back to Dixie, 
An' I mus' go!" 

There was something strangely sweet and pathetic 
and sad in the words and the music, and I let my 
fingers drop for an instant from my typewriter keys 
in order that I might better hear it. I had never 
heard Dinah sing in that way before except when in 
an ecstasy of religious fervor she sang the camp- 
meeting hymns. 

"I'se gwine back to Dixie, 
I'se gwine back to Dixie, 
I'se gwine where de orange blossoms grow, 
For I hear de chillun callin', 
I see de sad tears fallin', — 
My heart's turned back to Dixie, 
An' I mus' go!" 

She served the luncheon, dutifully and solemnly, 
and once I thought I saw a tear on her cheek, as she 
stooped to lay Judge's tablecloth on the floor and 
give him his plate of bread and meat. 

"Miss Polly!" she began, as she placed before me 
one of her wonderful apple pies. 

"Yes, Dinah!" I answered. 

"Oh, numn, Miss Polly, I war jes' goin' to ax ef 
yo' like de look o' dat pie? Seems how I done got 
too much shortenin' in it. I don't seem to be meas- 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 159 

urin' right dis mo'nin', an' done put salt 'stead o' 
sugar in de co'nsta'ch." 

"The pie's perfect, Dinah, and don't bother about 
the cornstarch. Throw it away. I'm rich to-day. 
I earned ten pounds this morning." 

She went to the kitchen, shaking her head sorrow- 
fully, and bemoaning the "was'eness ob de co'n- 
sta'ch." 

Something was the matter with Dinah! That I 
knew, yet how question her, how probe the cause of 
her sorrow? I did not like to ask her, for it has 
always seemed to me an unholy thing to demand that 
others should confide their sorrows to us. I fancied 
there was something in the Alabama letter that 
troubled her. Dinah knew me for a friend, and I 
took it that if she wanted me to know her troubles 
she would tell me without the asking. 

In the afternoon again there came to me the 
strains of the "Dixie Song." With one of the verses 
the voice broke many times — 

"I see de sad tears fallin', 
My heart's turned back to Dixie, 
An' I mus' go!" 

Somehow I knew that Dinah's tears were falling 
while she sang it. Even Judge noticed there was 
something wrong with the singing of Dinah, and he 
looked up at me, inquiringly. 

"Go out to the kitchen, Judge," I said. "Go and 
comfort Dinah. Dinah cries." 

He went — the sweet comforter! I knew he would 
put out his paw to Dinah and that then he would 



160 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

put his head in her lap, and tell her with his amber 
eyes that he loved her. 

Judge stayed in the kitchen half an hour. The 
singing had ceased and there was quiet. Finally I 
felt that I must make an excuse, so I took my type- 
writer brush out, as though to wash it in the kitchen 
sink, and there by the deal table sat Dinah with her 
arms round Judge's neck, sobbing softly. 

"Oh, Dinah!" I exclaimed, "you must be ill or in 
trouble. You needn't tell me what it is, only tell me 
if I can do something for you !" 

"Oh, Miss Polly, I mus' go home !" 

"To America, Dinah?" I asked, aghast at this new 
misfortune. 

Dinah nodded, and wiped away her tears with her 
sleeve. "It am dat debil Jim!" 

"Jim ! You mean your husband !" 

"Yes, Miss Polly, I mus' go home to Jim. He 
needin' me." 

"Now, Dinah, you know very well that's all non- 
sense, and I won't listen to it ! He hasn't been a good 
husband to you, and you've told me how you used to 
work for him and how he beat you and treated you 
shamefully. You said he was a devil, that you hated 
him, as you had good reason to do, and that was why 
you came away to London with the American lady." 

"Yes, Miss Polly, Jim, he war a debil an' he beated 
me an' struck me 'cross de forrad till de blood come, 
an' he drink up all my sabins in de s'loon, but he are 
refo'med now an' he done break he leg, an' he say 
in de lettah I got dis mo'nin' dat he needin' me fur 
to nuss him, and he not be bad husban' no moah !" 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 161 

"I tell you, Dinah, this is nonsense ! I'm sure he'll 
never reform. Mrs. Saxon told me how badly he 
had treated you, and that he was one of the kind that 
would make all sorts of promises, never intending to 
keep them. He's lazy, he drinks, he's cruel! He 
only wants you to come home and support him again, 
after these three years of shifting for himself !" 

"I done think he refo'm dis time, Miss Polly. He 
say he done got 'ligion, an' he speak and pray in de 
camp meetin' an' get de power and holler hallelujah 
when de revivals come on." 

"Fiddlesticks ! He tells you that to get you home 
because you're so religious. That's just the sort of 
trick a mean man would play on a religious woman. 
Dinah, don't you pay any attention to him. He 
wants you to come home and support him. I know 
what it will be. You'll have to take in washing and 
ironing, and go out doing day's work and wear your 
life away. See what a nice pleasant place you have 
here with me, and things are looking up, Dinah, and 
I shouldn't wonder if in a few years we could move 
into a beautiful little house with a garden, and I'll 
get another servant to do all the harder work and 
you can be chef and confidential maid and hair- 
dresser to her majesty — that's me ! I'll pay you the 
five dollars a week then, sure ! Now, Dinah, you 
burn up Jim's letter and don't answer it. He's a 
bad man, and he doesn't care a bit about you except 
what you can do for him, supporting him in his 
laziness." 

"He lub me, Miss Polly! He done say so in de 
lettah, an' I his lawfu' wife, an' I mus' go." 



162 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

"See here, Dinah!" I exclaimed, trying to think 
of still stronger arguments, "do you realize that when 
you get back to America it'll be altogether different 
from what it is in England? You've got a social 
position here. You associate with white people in 
England, but in America you'll have to go altogether 
with the negroes. America is not a land of equality 
for the negroes, Dinah. You and I know that. Down 
in Alabama where your husband wants you to come, 
the darkies are as thick as flies. In London, there's 
only an occasional negro, and here you are a curi- 
osity, a sort of heroine. There's Mrs. Brown's white 
cook had you in to tea with her the other afternoon, 
and she took you out shopping with her on her last 
day out, and you rode on the top of a bus with Mrs. 
Green's parlor maid, and she's invited you to the 
ball she's going to give her servants when they go 
to the country! You'll be the belle of that ball, 
Dinah. All the butlers and grooms will be crazy to 
be introduced to you and dance with you. Think, 
Dinah, how different it will be when you get back to 
America. Why, you couldn't sit down to eat at the 
table with a white trash washerwoman in Alabama !" 

Dinah shook her head, sadly. "Yes, Miss Polly, 
I puffickly 'preciate I done got a position in s'eiety 
heah, an' I like de way eve'ybody notice me w'en I go 
out, an' dey ain't no s'eiety fer niggahs 'cept niggahs 
in Baltimoah or Al'bamy, but I mus' go back to Jim, 
Miss Polly. Oh, Miss Polly, I lubs dat niggah !" 

Ah ! the truth was out, at last ! Dinah loved the 
man who had ill-treated her, who had beaten her, 
struck her on the forehead, made her work for her 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 163 

own and his living and spent her savings for rum 
at the saloon. Love, in spite of all the brutal black 
man had done to kill it, had survived, and now it 
rose uppermost in the heart of this lonely woman of 
a despised race. She had been happy with me, she 
loved me and Judge as only those of her skin and 
nature can love those they serve. She had outgrown 
her first prejudice against England, and no longer 
referred to America as "de Ian' ob libe'ty," finding 
that English freedom was more than sufficient for 
all her needs. She had made friends among a few 
white servants whom she had met in the flat building 
and in the park when she walked with Judge. She 
had been growing happy and contented and was look- 
ing forward to the time when we should take a house 
out somewhere with a beautiful garden wherein she 
could hang clothes on a line to dry, clothes washed by 
her own hands on an American washboard in a big 
wooden tub. Neither Dinah nor I ever could approve 
of the laundry work that was done for us in London 
laundries, and Dinah sighed for conveniences to do 
the washing and ironing herself ; vowing that in those 
happy days to come, she would get up at five o'clock 
and have all the clothes washed and dried before nine 
o'clock, so the neighbors would not see the clothes- 
lines of muslins and flannels hanging over the lawn. 
But now, nothing counted with Dinah but love — 
foolish, unreasoning, mistaken, undeserved love, yet 
love. Why argue with her? Why try to dissuade 
her? She was but a simple soul, and yet she was a 
woman, and the woman loved a man and was ready 
to sacrifice herself for the unworthy object. The 



164 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

love that draws all women, whether they be black or 
white, great or lowly, rich or poor, intellectual or 
ignorant, to the sacrificial altar, now drew Dinah 
away from me ! 'Twas not for me to blame her or 
argue with her, but only to pity. 

It was on a Thursday that the letter came, and on 
the Saturday so near at hand Dinah determined to 
sail. She served me faithfully till the very last, 
packing her humble belongings in between times. 
Never a song, except the "Dixie Song," escaped her 
during the time that remained. She was not happy 
at her home-going, at the thought of reunion with the 
rascal who awaited her on the other side, with a 
broken leg, maybe, though I myself felt very strongly 
inclined to the belief that the only thing the matter 
with his legs was laziness, and that Dinah was now 
called back to act as a crutch upon which it might 
depend. Often the tears stood in Dinah's eyes, often 
she grabbed Judge and buried her black face in his 
blacker coat during the Friday that preceded the day 
of sailing. She sang the song of Dixie sorrowfully, 
wailingly : — 

"My heart's turned back to Dixie, 
An' I mus' go!" 

Poor Dinah ! I wept at her departure and mourn 
her still, for I have lost her. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 165 



CHAPTER XV. 

ECONOMY FOR TWO. 

When Dinah had taken her second-cabin passage 
for New York, I advertised for "a general servant, 
to live in a flat with one lady," and finally picked ont 
from among the applicants one to whom Judge took a 
particular fancy. I have an implicit belief in Judge's 
instinct, for he is a far better student of human 
nature than am I. I trust no one, whom he does not 
trust and I suspect all those persons who, on being 
introduced to him, do not give him a friendly pat 
and tell me he is beautiful. Therefore, on the morn- 
ing when the aspirants after the position left vacant 
by Dinah called to see me, I kept Judge close at hand 
to inspect them and pass his opinion upon them. 
Whenever there was a rat-tat at the door, Judge went 
with me to open it. One young woman I turned 
away at the threshold, because, seeing Judge, she 
started back with a frightened look on her face, ex- 
claiming, "Oh, a big black dog ! Will he bite, Miss ?" 

"There's no use for yon to come in," I said. "You 
wouldn't suit me because you're afraid of dogs, and 
you must have a bad conscience, for only people with 
bad consciences are afraid of dogs." 

That girl went her way, and others followed, till 



166 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

finally two young women called at the same time. 
I liked them both and was wondering which one to 
take, when Judge went up to the shorter girl, saluted 
her with his three little harks which mean "Happy 
to see youl" took her umbrella in his mouth, put it 
on the floor and stretched himself out with his head 
upon it, looking up into her face with those wonder- 
ful eyes of his, and bringing from the girl the excla- 
mation, "Oh, Miss, but isn't he beautiful !" 

I engaged her then, hunted up her character that 
day, and the next Monday the place of Dinah was 
filled. 

Did I say "filled"? Forgive me, Dinah! How 
often hath my very soul yearned for your fried 
chicken, Maryland style, — your doughnuts, fit eating 
for the gods, — your coffee, nectar for the same, — 
jout Boston beans done in an earthen pot with the 
middle-piece-pork just rightly browned, — your cakes, 
of the buckwheat and "flannel" variety, and your 
picked-up codfish made from the tins of our dear, 
dead Ebenezer Emmett's packing house. And, oh! 
your potatoes, cooked in the thirty-seven different 
ways, the variety of which made my modest little 
table ever provide for me the spice of life ! 

Candor compels me to state that though Judge 
picked out for me a strictly honest, kind, and respect- 
ful servant, he chose one whose so-called "cooking" 
made me weep and waste away. I lent her Dinah's 
cookbook, I tried to teach her to mash potatoes with- 
out lumps, to make a cake that would be light enough 
for a person of ordinary strength to lift without 
groaning. I explained to her the way to open Ameri- 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 167 

can tinned vegetables and tried my best to convince 
her that I could not live on cabbage, cauliflower and 
Brussels sprouts alone, and that therefore I must 
have tinned corn and tinned tomatoes and tinned 
Lima beans. In vain, in vain did I explain to her 
that I could not approve of her method of boiling 
her clothes in the soup kettle, that I liked not the 
flavor in my consomme, and that it was not her privi- 
lege to put in the post office savings bank the two 
shillings a week wash-money I gave her, and treat 
my soup kettle thus. My life became a perpetual 
worry over the trials of housekeeping, my intellect 
grew small, my wit got scarce and I found it impos- 
sible to keep my mind in condition for journalistic 
work. 

So one day I advertised for a situation for Judge's 
protegee, recommended her highly to the lady who 
came to take up her character, paid her a month's 
wages, gave her one of my hats and a photograph of 
myself in housemaid's costume and one of Judge's" 
portraits besides a lock of his hair, and I defied 
British etiquette by shaking hands with her and 
wishing her well. I got rid of the flat, sold off the 
furniture, which was now free of its mortgage, for 
sixty pounds, and then Judge and I went and took 
up our abode in a fashionable hotel, and I started a 
bank account with the sixty pounds, though I knew 
I must draw it all out the next week, with the excep- 
tion of the five pounds I had promised always to 
leave as the very lowest balance that could be allowed. 

I went to the fashionable hotel because it seemed 
to be the most economical way I could live. I knew 



168 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

there were cheap houses in Pimlico where board and 
lodging were offered at the remarkably low terms of 
eighteen shillings a week, but I did not see how I, 
the "heroine of London/ 7 "the most successful woman 
journalist living," the "girl who had made her little 
pile by introducing American journalism into Eng- 
land," as the newspapers in several countries were 
pleased to describe me, could afford to live in a cheap 
boarding or lodging house. Besides, there was 
Judge. At the cheap places they wouldn't have him 
and at the expensive lodging houses, where they 
would have taken him, for a consideration, I found 
my bills would amount to more than they would at 
the fashionable hotel. At the latter place, the man- 
ager, when he saw Judge and had patted him, said 
that they never allowed dogs in the hotel and couldn't 
take them at any price. One of the hotel guests 
passed the office door just at that minute, with three 
dogs following in his wake, and the manager laughed 
and I laughed, and he admitted that as they didn't 
"allow" dogs as guests, they, of course, could not 
make any charge for them, and that there were 
twenty-seven dogs at present in the hotel, though 
there had been as many as forty-nine. 

I must say that if there is any particular charac- 
teristic of the typical Englishman that I admire 
more than another, it is his smiling and utter dis- 
regard for such rules and laws as he considers unjust 
and unnecessary, and as for his liberality towards 
other persons who choose to break the rules that he 
himself lays down for their guidance and govern- 
ment, it is of a sort that I never weary of admiring 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 169 

and taking advantage of. If it be true that England 
is a land of "red tape," then that tape is made of 
rubber that stretches and stretches out until it is so 
fine that you really can't see it and so it does not 
trouble anybody very much. Would that we had 
some of the same stretchy kind in America ! I tried 
one day to take Judge into a New York library, pass- 
ing calmly by the sign "No dogs allowed." An offi- 
cial stopped me. "Dogs are not allowed in here, 
madam," he said, frowning. 

"So I have heard!" I retorted, smilingly, but I 
went right on. The official came after me, looking 
as ugly as fiery red anger could make him. "Madam," 
he exclaimed, "I tell you you can't take that dog in ! 
Can't you read the sign at the door ?" He took hold 
of Judge's chain. "Drop that," I said. "You might 
be courteous at least. I'll report you for impudence." 

"And I'll report you for breaking a plainly writ- 
ten rule," he replied, as Judge and I indignantly 
went out the door. 

Now, at the doors of Mudie's Library in London, 
there is also the sign "No dogs admitted," yet Judge 
and I have gone there regularly twice a week for 
years, and I know of no place in the world where such 
a fine collection of handsome, well-behaved, thorough- 
bred dogs can be seen as at Mudie's Library in the 
Brompton Road almost any morning or afternoon. 

I told the manager of the hotel, when I took pos- 
session of my apartments, that much of the time I 
should probably take only one meal a day, my break- 
fast, as I went out a great deal to luncheon and 
dinner. He took occasion to recommend to me the 



170 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

laundry which the hotel had just started, and I re- 
plied that I would have been glad to patronize it, but 
I had a laundress, a poor, struggling young woman, 
who did my washing at odd moments when she could 
snatch the time from her other duties, and she was 
really dependent upon me for her living. It was 
true! When I engaged the suite of apartments I 
saw at once that the private bath room with its excel- 
lent supply of hot and cold water would enable me 
to economize in the direction of laundry bills, for 1 
could do all my own washing right there in the bath 
tub, and I bought a supply of starch and bluing and 
two flatirons with patent American wooden remov- 
able handles, and a spirit stove and fuel wherewith 
to make it burn ; so I became my own laundress and 
boiled my starch on this convenient little stove, 
placed on a box directly under the hotel rules, among 
which was a prohibition against washing and ironing 
in one's rooms. 

There was also among the rules a prohibition 
against cooking in the rooms, yet believing then, as 
I do now, that needs must when necessity for econ- 
omy drives, I got up many a nice little luncheon and 
dinner for myself and Judge. For tenpence I got 
a new-laid egg to boil for myself (I generally bought 
two at a time, as I did not like to ask for only one at 
the shop where I dealt), a mutton chop for Judge, 
two half-penny rolls, an ounce of butter, and pepper 
and salt. Three shillings was the lowest price at 
which I could get any sort of luncheon at the hotel, 
and the dinners were still more expensive. I even 
found that I could get up a dainty course dinner 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 171 

over the spirit stove, ending with a sweet, dessert, 
finger bowls and all, for the low price of one shilling 
and threepence, and many indeed were the times that 
I stayed away from the hotel dining room, faring 
thus cheaply though plentifully in my own sitting 
room. In this way I kept my monthly hotel bill 
down to about as low a figure as that for which I 
had previously lived at the flat with Dinah. 

I found a cape the most convenient sort of outdoor 
wrap in those days. My cape was smart and expen- 
sive looking, and as I had to go out shopping every 
day, it covered a multitude of groceries and provi- 
sions. Judge always carried the most genteel and 
unsuspicious-looking parcels in his mouth, but the 
potatoes, mustard-and-cress, chops, bread, and eggs, 
went under my cape. 

One Saturday evening I was returning from my 
shopping expedition, having got in double stores on 
account of the next day's being Sunday, and both 
my hands underneath my cape were absolutely full. 
Among other things, in a paper bag, I had three 
ha'pence worth of potatoes. I was feeling rather 
rich and happy, for the week had been exceedingly 
prosperous, two magazine articles having been pub- 
lished that month for which I had got my checks. 
I was wearing my new Paris hat, which, as it was 
mid-season, I had bought for eighteen shillings and 
sixpence. It was the delight of my heart, and I am 
sure that no woman could have desired a lovelier bit 
of head gear than that hat. I had on a model dress, 
too. That also was very cheap — mid-season price, 
so cheap that no American woman would believe me 



172 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

if I told the price, so I won't name the figure. The 
skirt was just as long and sweeping as style de- 
manded, and though I generally held up my trains 
to save them from wearing out, I could not do it that 
night, because both my hands were so full. 

Just as I was about to turn into the street where 
stood my hotel home, I saw coming towards me with 
outstretched hand and smiling countenance, the well- 
known and distinguished editor of one of London's 
high-class periodicals, in the pages of which an 
article of mine had just appeared, and for which I 
had received a most liberal check and such a kind 
and encouraging letter of thanks as only an English 
editor knows how to write. 

"Ah! I am fortunate!" he exclaimed, hastening 
towards me, "I am saved the trouble of writing a 
letter to you to suggest a subject which I feel sure 
that only you can treat in that bright, original style 
which will make it instructive as well as enter- 
taining !" 

Great heavens ! There was outstretched to me the 
hand that held a part of my future literary success in 
its palm, yet how could I take it, with my own left 
hand full of eggs and my right hand grasping a bag 
of potatoes ! Consternation seized me, and I thought 
how utterly stupid was this English custom of hand- 
shaking. What could I do? Eefuse that proffered 
hand ! How dared I ? I felt something give — it was 
the potato bag bursting, and I looked for the potatoes 
to roll down at the great man's feet, though I pressed 
hard against them, then got my elbow outside my 
cape, pressed against that and, doubting not that now 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 173 

the potatoes would fall, held out my well-gloved 
hand. 

Truly, Heaven helps those who help themselves! 
The great man explained what he wanted me to do 
for him. He required it at once, he said. Would I 
now put aside everything else I had on hand and do 
him that article ? Ah ! would I not ? Rather ! My 
heart leaped for joy, right up against the eggs, so 
close on my left. Harder and harder pressed my 
right elbow against those potatoes. "Now, I must 
hasten ! So glad to have had a little chat ! So much 
more satisfactory than letter-writing !" said the edi- 
tor, and then again the outstretched hand at parting. 
"Ah, surely the potatoes will take a tumble this 
time \" I said in my terrified heart. "Why, why, 
why, need this delightful Englishman shake my hand 
again thus heartily?" 

With a pat upon Judge's head and a final farewell 
nod to me, the editor was gone, and, lo ! not one 
potato had fallen to the ground! Then I grabbed 
my cape tighter about me, and rushed breathlessly 
into my hotel, and up the stairs and to my apart- 
ments. On to the floor of my sitting room I let them 
all drop, and, regardless of my clean, new gloves, I 
played a game of ball with those potatoes, and Judge 
rushed about, grabbing them in his mouth as I threw 
them. Then, when the daylight had faded and I 
heard the guests in my part of the hotel passing down 
the corridor to the dining room, I washed and peeled 
a half dozen and fried them French style and cooked 
my chops, and Judge and I fared sumptuously and 
joyously. 



174 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

Judge was of the greatest possible assistance to me 
in keeping up appearances. Though he was a dog 
with a pedigree of wondrous dimensions and had all 
my own love of the things that money could buy, he 
had a delightful way of accommodating himself to 
his circumstances. He wore neckties of wash ribbon 
— which though it cost more per yard than the ordi- 
nary ribbon, I found the most inexpensive in the 
end — without a bark of dissatisfaction. He sub- 
mitted to my dismissal of his barber, who charged 
ten shillings and sixpence to shave him after the 
latest poodle fashion, without a whine, and kicked 
his legs in glee when, having purchased a pair of 
poodle-clippers and studied the directions for using 
them, I myself became his barber. I became an 
expert in the wielding of those clippers, and, in tak- 
ing his promenades abroad, Judge never had cause 
to be ashamed of his appearance, for there wasn't a 
suspicion of the "homemade" about him. I shaved 
him just as well as the most experienced and high- 
priced poodle barber in London. What is more, I 
wrote a magazine article about a new employment 
for gentlewomen — poodle clipping, explaining the 
whole matter fully, and I got five guineas for it. 

One of my greatest difficulties was the disposing 
of my potato skins, egg shells, bread crusts and bits 
of bone that Judge left over. I dared not put them 
in my waste-basket for fear of discovery by the cham- 
bermaid, and, as I had a gas grate instead of coal, 
I had no way of burning them. The only way seemed 
to go out in a quiet street or the park and "lose" 
them. One day I dropped my paper bag of shells 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 175 

and peelings in Hyde Park, and Judge, noticing this, 
went back and fetched it in his mouth. I explained 
that it had been "done a-purpose," but he refused to 
believe me and when I dropped it a second time near 
Clarges street he picked it up again. At the third 
dropping he picked it up and refused to deliver it to 
me. Try as I would, reason and argue with him as 
I did, I could not make him relax his hold on that 
parcel, and, as I never scold him, I finally allowed 
him to return with me to the hotel carrying it in his 
mouth, thinking to take it out the next time I went 
alone. In the front corridor stood a handsomely 
dressed lady, one of the hotel guests, though a 
stranger. 

"Oh ! you beauty \" she said to Judge. "Will you 
shake hands with me ?" 

Now Judge is as French as French can be as 
regards gallantry to the ladies. He held out his right 
paw, dropped the paper bag out of his mouth, so he 
could bark his "Happy to meet you !" and the potato 
skins and egg shells went all over the floor. 

"Oh ! you droll doggie !" the lady cried. "Where 
in the world did you get those ridiculous things ?" 

"He picked them up in the street," I answered 
hurriedly and truthfully. "I have taught him to 
pick up parcels and deliver them to their owners." 
Then Judge and I flew up the stairs, he grabbing his 
burst and empty paper bag, and casting a look of 
aristocratic disgust at the plebeian contents spread 
on the tiling, which I paid the hall porter sixpence 
to brush up at once. 

I am very fond of onions, prepared in the Ameri- 



176 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

can fashion with butter and cream and pepper and 
salt, and one day I thought I'd cook some over my 
spirit stove. The odor escaped to the halls, went 
down the corridors and penetrated into the manager's 
office. He went investigating and located the source 
of the aroma at my hall door. He knocked, said 
good morning, and asked if he were mistaken in 
thinking I was cooking in my rooms, which, as I 
knew, was not allowed — onions being especially objec- 
tionable. It was useless to deny it, but, not wishing 
to confess that I was only a poor journalist trying to 
live economically at a fashionable hotel, I said : — 

"I'm very sorry, but I am cooking onions for my 
dog." 

"I have never heard of a dog eating onions," re- 
turned the manager with a most unbelieving look on 
his face. 

"Neverthless," I answered, "Judge has been or- 
dered by his vet. to eat onions, and he eats them." 

The truth was that a noted dog doctor had once 
told me that onions mixed with soup or meat or other 
food were good for dogs, especially poodles. I had 
often tried to induce Judge to eat them, and he had 
always indignantly refused such fare. Yet, when I 
saw that the manager did not believe me, I grew des- 
perate and decided that Judge must help me out of 
my dilemma and save my reputation for veracity. I 
cooled some of the onions and put them on a plate. 

"Attention ! Judge !" I called out. 

Judge jumped to the middle of the room and gazed 
earnestly at me, knowing that an important commu- 
nication was to be made to him. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 177 

"Judge shall go walking," I said, and his tail be- 
gan to wag. I placed his silver collar and his largest 
ribbon-bow on a chair and pointed to them, saying, 
"Yes! Jndge shall wear these and out a dash along 
Piccadilly!" His tail went a little faster and I 
walked over to the onions. "Jndge shall ran in the 
park and scamper and eat grass." His eyes beamed, 
his ears went back and his tail went ronnd in a circle. 
"But, attention! Judge must first take his medi- 
cine," and I pointed to the onion plate. His tail 
stopped wagging, he walked over to the plate, gave 
an indignant sniff, and jumped back on the sofa, 
burying his head among the cushions. Three times 
I called him to attention, promising him pleasures 
in which his soul delighted, but when I said "Medi- 
cine, first," he sadly drooped his tail and walked 
away. 

There were two ways left, two sure ways, to induce 
Judge to eat those onions and save my reputation. 
If I pretended to sob and weep, he would do anything 
I asked of him, but I never resorted to that but once, 
when he was dangerously ill and needed to take some 
very nasty medicine to save his life. It would nearly 
break his little heart to see me cry, and I could not 
perpetrate that cruelty on him to make him eat 
onions, which, though they might be good for him, 
were not, I knew, an essential part of his diet. As 
the case was desperate, I tried the other method. 

"Attention ! Judge !" I said again, and he jumped 
to the middle of the floor. "Judge shall go for a 
drive in a carriage with horses ! They shall prance 
and prance (here I suited my motions to the words) 



178 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

along Piccadilly and in the park ! Horse ! Yes ! two 
horses !" 

His tail wagged as though it would come off and 
he rushed up and down with such delighted barks 
and antics as made the manager roar with laughter 
and me tremble to think of the consequences of my 
rash promise. Again I went over to the onions and 
said, "But, first, medicine!" pointing to the floor. 
He bounded over, and without so much as a sniff ate 
up those onions with two licks of his tongue! The 
manager departed in high good humor, though from 
the curious twinkle in his eye I doubted whether 
even then he was thoroughly convinced of my strict 
veracity. 

I touched my bell, and "Buttons" appeared. "I 
will have a victoria at three this afternoon," I said. 

"Yes, Miss! One horse?" 

I looked at Judge appealingly, and the look he 
gave back said most plainly, "Don't cheat! You 
promised two!" 

"Two horses," I said, turning to the boy, and from 
Judge there came a joyous jump and bark. 

"Yes, Miss !" and the boy was gone. 

In the park that afternoon Judge was admired by 
all the occupants of the smart carriages that passed 
us. He sat beside me with his yellow ribbons flying 
in the breeze, his black silk curls shining in the sun, 
his amber eyes beaming. Frequently, when the high- 
steppers which drew our carriage gave an extra 
prance and toss of their heads, Judge would turn to 
me and laugh, showing his white teeth. Sweet little 
rascal! He has a highly-developed sense of humor, 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIKL" 179 

and he knew quite well to what straits I might be 
put to pay that carriage bill. 

Even after we got home, and I was at work on my 
typewriter, trying to earn an extra bit in view of my 
reckless extravagance, he would run over to me, look 
up, show his teeth and when I would say, "Did Judge 
have a good time ? Did Judge cut a dash ?" his tail 
would thump the floor most vigorously in reply. 

Ah, well ! as I have said before, I love the follies 
and vanities of the world, and so does Judge. I 
earned two guineas for the dog story I wrote that 
night, and the drive cost less than half that amount. 



180 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 



CHAPTER XYI. 

AN ENCOUNTER WITH MRS. LYNN LINTON. 

"There goes your enemy!" 

I was out walking one afternoon with a friend in 
the vicinity of St. James's Park, and, as an elderly 
woman, with what seemed to me to be a kind, sym- 
pathetic face, passed us, my friend thus addressed 
me. 

"My enemy !" I exclaimed in surprise, "who is my 
enemy ?" 

"The lady that just passed/' 

"But I don't know her ! Who is she?" 

"Mrs. Lynn Linton !" 

"You mean the author ?" 

"Yes! Now, don't tell me you didn't know you 
were her particular — well, I'll call it 'objection'! 
You are a subject upon which she can grow extremely 
eloquent. Your name comes up rather often, you 
know, these days, and she never misses an oppor- 
tunity to speak her mind about you. She views you 
in the light of the 'scarlet woman' journalist, I be- 
lieve." 

"That's ridiculous !" I exclaimed. "I don't know 
her and she doesn't know me. I never did anything 
to her and it is impossible she should want to in- 
jure me." 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 181 

"Oh! she wouldn't injure yon, except with her 
tongue ! When people ask her what she thinks of the 
new kind of journalism you've been doing in Eng- 
land, she tosses her head and says, 'Oh! that crea- 
ture ! Do you call that journalism?' Then she goes 
on to express her opinion of your work and you in no 
very amiable terms. She thinks you are a very 
shocking person, a vulgar creature seeking notoriety, 
and when she hears of your having been invited to 
the homes of any of her friends, she begs that they 
will arrange things so she and you won't come into 
contact. Some of the adjectives she uses to describe 
you are really interesting. 'Brassy' is one of the 
words she applies to you. She's your very dearest 
enemy, I assure you." 

I went back to my hotel in a very bewildered, not 
to say highly agitated, state of mind. It was all so 
very strange that I should have gained the enmity 
of a woman like Mrs. Lynn Linton, a well-known 
author, a highly successful journalist, who had made 
her way, as I had heard, through many hardships, to 
the eminence she had attained. She with her years 
and years of experience, who had lived past the three- 
score years and ten, she to be the enemy of one who 
was young and poor and struggling like myself ! The 
more I thought it over the more absurd it seemed 
that a woman like Mrs. Lynn Linton, whom I knew 
only by reputation, and who, so far as I knew, had 
never seen me, should take the trouble to denounce 
me in this manner, and I concluded that perhaps my 
friend was either trying to tax my credulity with a 
rather cruel sort of joke, or that she was repeating 



182 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

things she had heard which had no foundation in 
fact. 

I remembered that I knew a number of people who 
were well acquainted with Mrs. Lynn Linton, so I 
made it my business to see them and put to them the 
question : — 

"Have you ever heard that Mrs. Linton had any 
particular dislike of me?" with the result that I got 
the same information I had from my first friend, 
and my bewilderment was increased. Indeed, anger 
took the place of bewilderment after a time, for it 
seemed to me particularly unjust and cruel that a 
woman in the position of Mrs. Lynn Linton should 
hold me up to contempt and give an impression of 
my personality to strangers who might judge me ac- 
cordingly, an impression that was as silly as it was 
unjust. 

"I must meet Mrs. Lynn Linton," I said to myself. 
"If she were a man I'd find another man to take up 
my cause and fight her to a finish, but as she's a 
woman I'll have to see her myself." 

Thereupon I wrote her a letter. It ran: — 

"Dear Madam : I am writing a magazine article 
on the subject of certain aspects of woman's position 
in England as compared with that in the United 
States. I have a feeling that you might, if you 
would be so kind as to do so, give me certain infor- 
mation which would be of great assistance to me, and 
I write to ask if you would allow me to call upon you 
some time in the near future at any hour you will 
name. I have, of course, long known you by name, 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 183 

and read and loved some of your books when I was 
at boarding school. I should like very much to know 
you personally. You perhaps know of me through 
my work in London during the past three years. 
"Faithfully yours, ." 

The letter went and in the evening came the stiff 
reply:— 

"Madam: If you will call to-morrow morning at 
eleven o'clock, I can see you a few minutes. 
"Yours truly, 

"E. Lynn Linton." 

When I stood before Mrs. Lynn Linton at the time 
she had appointed, my heart almost failed me, so 
sternly, so aggressively, so uncompromisingly did she 
look at me as I stood in the doorway. She did not 
offer to shake hands nor ask me to sit down, she her- 
self standing the while. 

"Y^ou wished to see me. What can I do for you ?" 
was her greeting. 

"Yes, Mrs. Lynn Linton," I said, for although I 
had written the letter on the spur of the moment, 
with no particular questions to ask her in mind, I 
had, after receiving her note, formulated a sort of 
skeleton upon which to build up an article upon the 
position of working women in England and America. 

"Yes," I said, "I am writing an article concerning 
the different occupations pursued by Englishwomen, 
especially educated Englishwomen, and comparing 
self-supporting Englishwomen with self-supporting 



184 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

American women. Now, take for instance, journal- 
ism. You have been a journalist so long that I feel 
sure you know about the very beginnings of the Eng- 
lishwoman's work in journalism. It is somewhat 
different for women journalists in England from 
what it is in America." 

We were both still standing near the door of the 
sitting room where Mrs. Linton received me. I was 
looking squarely into her face, while she was exam- 
ining every detail of my appearance and apparel. 
Finally, she said, as though she had not heard a word 
of what I had been saying : — 

"Your hair is rather pretty and of the fashionable 
shade. It is not bleached !" 

"I don't understand you, Mrs. Linton," I said, 
with a face that I knew must show both my anger 
and amusement at this observation, which seemed to 
be not exactly apropos to the subject which I had 
hoped to put under discussion. "But my hair is not 
bleached, and I can't see any reason why you should 
mention it." 

"But surely you can't consider it an insult to have 
it thought your hair might be bleached. I didn't 
think it was when I saw it, but I wanted to make 
sure. Of course you can't blame me for thinking 
you would be apt to bleach your hair and paint your 
face, too." 

I did not answer. I merely looked at this strange 
woman who, I had been told, was my enemy. 

"I think I did not ask you to sit down. I must 
also sit down. I am not well." 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 185 

"Thank you !" I answered, and I took the sofa to 
which she pointed. 

"Why did you come here ?" she asked. 

"Do you mean why did I come to see you ?" 

"No ! Why did you come to England and take the 
bread out of Englishwomen journalists' mouths?" 

"Surely, Mrs. Linton, I have not done that !" 

"Yes ! you have done that ! You, with your hor- 
rible, unwomanly kind of work have demoralized the 
taste of London editors who at one time were content 
to fill their papers with good, decent, legitimate lit- 
erature! Now they have a craving for the sensa- 
tional, horrible kind of thing you have introduced to 
them. I say you have ruined the English editors. 
You are responsible for their downfall." 

I knew I must not laugh, that is, out loud, at the 
thought of poor little me having created such havoc 
among the hitherto staid and solid British editors, so 
I made a tremendous effort at self-control, and 
said : — 

"I deny that I have ever taken bread from any 
woman's mouth, and I also deny having had any such 
influence as you say I have had upon English editors. 
Furthermore, I have never done any work of which 
I have cause to be ashamed. I have never stooped to 
a thing that was indelicate, unwomanly, or dishon- 
orable." 

Mrs. Lynn Linton did not answer. She, however, 
looked her contempt. 

"I do not wish to appear inhospitable, though I 
disapprove of you and your work. Will you have a 
brandy and soda?" 



186 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

"I don't drink brandy and soda," I answered. 

"I supposed, of course, you did! But you smoke 
cigarettes, do you not ?" 

"No. I never saw a woman smoke a cigarette till 
I came to London. The first time I ever saw a woman 
smoke was when I called at the office of a young 
Englishwoman journalist. She was sitting on her 
table, smoking. I also never saw a woman drink 
brandy and soda till I came to England. I find that 
very nice women do it in England, but in my country 
it is different/' 

"What ! you mean to say you do not smoke or drink 
brandy and soda ! Englishwomen have been taking 
it up so lately. They got it from Americans." 

"No ! not from Americans ! Drinking and smoking 
are things from which my countrywomen, as a whole, 
are free. Some of them learn these things when they 
come to England, but as for me, I have not been an 
apt scholar." 

"We will let that pass," she replied. "I should 
like to know why you went out as a servant, why you 
stood at Piccadilly Circus and sold flowers, why by 
misrepresentations you got into a laundry, why you 
swept a crossing, and did all the other disgusting 
things you did. Couldn't you have fun in some 
other way? As I said before, you took bread from 
needy Englishwomen's mouths." 

"I did all these things, Mrs. Linton, to put some 
bread into my own mouth." 

"What! are you poor?" she asked, turning round 
sharply. 



OF A "NEWSPAPEK GIKL" 187 

"Did you think I would do that hard work if I 
were not poor?" I asked. 

"But do you mean that you earn your livelihood 
by doing that kind of work?" 

"I did earn it that way for a time. I am not doing 
so much of it now, because I've made a name and am 
getting on better." 

I had noted that during the last few minutes Mrs. 
Linton's voice had grown more gentle, her face less 
stern ; yet she spoke again like the accusing judge : — 

"You got into people's houses as a servant by false 
representations." 

"Not very false," I returned. "I said that I was 
an American woman, though of English descent. 
That I had come to England for personal reasons and 
suddenly found myself penniless, with no way of 
earning my living except by going out to service. I 
did my work to the best of my ability, I wrote it up 
in a way to make people laugh, for though I was sad, 
myself, I knew there was no market for sad stories, 
so I made things funny which were in reality very 
horrible and pathetic. When I had that work, it 
turned out so successful that a number of editors 
asked me to do other work of the same sort for them, 
and I did it, but never for a moment have I lost my 
self-respect. I am not ashamed of any of my actions 
since I came to England. I have never once for- 
gotten that I was a woman, nor allowed anyone else 
to forget it." 

I looked at Mrs. Lynn Linton, as though I chal- 
lenged her. 

"It is all very strange," she said, half reminis- 



188 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

cently, "how I could have made such a mistake, for 
you seem to be a gentlewoman. Yet, how could a 
gentlewoman do the work that you have done? I 
thought you were a brazen creature; a sort of wild, 
adventuresome female, worse even than the shrieking 
women of England, and they are bad enough!" 

She came to the sofa. "Have you ever heard that 
I am a very uncompromising, set, determined old 
woman, and that I seldom change my opinions?" 

"No," I answered, smiling. 

"Yes, it is true ! I am that ! It is very hard for 
me to say I have made a mistake. Do you know that 
I fear I have done you many a wrong? Oh! the 
things I have said about you have not been nice 
things, I assure you ! You've been the talk of Lon- 
don, you know. My neighbors at dinners and teas 
have asked me what I thought of your work, and I 
have not spoken too kindly of you. I have called you 
brazen, unspeakable. People have laughed and said 
I was prejudiced, but I would not admit it. I sup- 
pose I have read nearly everything you have written, 
out of merest curiosity and so that I could condemn 
you the more. I have never written anything about 
you for the papers because, once, after writing some- 
thing against you, I was advised that it was too harsh, 
and was asked to take it out. I, an old woman, have 
been trying to prejudice people against you, a young 
woman, trying to make your way in the world. I 
want you to forgive me for the injury I may have or 
might have done you. Of course, you did not know 
till I told you, and you might never have known." 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 189 

"Yes, I did know it, Mrs. Linton/' I replied. "I 
have been told, and I determined to come and see 
you under some pretext, so that I could disabuse 
your mind of your unjust and almost wicked preju- 
dice against me. It did not seem possible that you 
could go on misunderstanding and feeling as I had 
heard you felt and especially speaking as you have 
done, when once you had an opportunity of realizing 
my position. Though you are so much older and 
wiser than I, and it may sound almost disrespectful 
for me to say it to you, I am going to tell you that 
I came to teach you something — a lesson I knew you 
ought to learn. I have come to you not only for 
myself, but for all women who must work to earn 
their bread, to ask you, not for kindness, not for 
benevolence, nor assistance in any way, but only for 
justice. Are you angry that I speak like this ?" 

"No, my child !" she said, taking my hand, "I shall 
always be glad you came. I am old and you are 
young, but you have been teacher and I pupil. Did 
you say you forgave me ?" 

I could not now turn hypocrite and say in the 
casual, untruthful way that one often does, "Oh, 
there's nothing to forgive!" There was something. 
I knew it. Mrs. Lintou knew it, and so I said, "Yes, 
I forgive you !" 

Mrs. Linton had written me that she could spare 
me a few minutes, but it was hours before I left her 
that day. She invited me to stay with her to 
luncheon. She showed me some of her most treas- 
ured books, she told me of her lonely life, of her re- 



190 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

ligious beliefs, of her girlhood, of her unhappy mar- 
riage and of many of the things that made her life 
a not too happy one. I told her about my own 
countrywomen, their schools, their universities, their 
means of helping themselves and their position in 
the workaday world. She laughed over my recitals 
of my childhood days on the Wisconsin farm when 
I told her about the "college cow" and the "college 
hen" — how all the cream that rose on the milk of 
the "college cow" was turned into butter to be sold 
at a village store and the proceeds added to a fund 
called "the college fund," and how the eggs of the 
"college hen" were put to the same use, and helped 
materially to send me to boarding school. 

I told her about the policemen who called me the 
"little reporter" and how kind were the editors and 
reporters on the Western and Southern papers where 
I worked just before I came to England, and the dear 
old lady laughed — sometimes with the tears rolling 
down her cheeks, exclaiming, "Very American! very 
American !" 

She was about to go to the country, she told me, 
and we agreed that when she had returned, and I 
had got back from the American trip that I was 
about to make, I should run in often to see her and 
not be formal. 

"You have done missionary work to-day," she said, 
when I was going. "You've converted a cantanker- 
ous old woman, and made her see the necessity of 
reading between the lines when she picks up books 
and papers that do not seem to be according to her 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 191 

old-fashioned notions. Don't think I approve of all 
your work, even yet. It's not my idea of journalism. 
I do not think it ought to be encouraged, and I think 
it was a dreadful thing for a gentlewoman to have to 
sweep a crossing and sell flowers and work among 
laundry girls, even to write about these things. Don't 
tell me you came into contact with the kind of 
people you'd like to associate with when you did those 
things ! Oh ! I used to feel contempt at your doing 
it, and now it worries me to think you had to do it. 
Was there no other way ?" 

"It was the only way, Mrs. Linton," I said. 

"But you've stopped it now? You do not run the 
danger of having your fingers cut off with the laun- 
dry machinery any more, or of dying from picking 
strawberries in the rain?" 

"No !" I said, laughing, "I'm getting on, now ! I 
write for the magazines and the reviews, and I expect 
I shall become a really proper person and perhaps a 
stately journalist after awhile." 

She laughed and bent over me as I went out the 
door. Through the years that have passed I remember 
her words, a kindly benediction, a friendly warning 
from one who was about to finish her career to one 
who had but begun: — 

"Guard against bitterness and cynicism. Have 
faith and hope and charity, especially charity, the 
charity in which, perhaps, I have sometimes failed." 

It was not my privilege to learn to know Mrs. 
Lynn Linton very much better than I knew her when 
she bade me good-bye that afternoon, for soon after- 



192 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

wards it was necessary for me to return to my own 
country, and just as I returned from a somewhat 
prolonged stay in America, Mrs. Lynn Linton died. 
It is with a conviction that she would be glad to have 
me tell this little story of her that I include it in 
these reminiscences. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 193 



CHAPTER XVII. 



HOME AGAIN" AND "iN THE WAT OE LIFE."" 



There are three kinds of workers on the New 
York press. They are the "regulars," the "space- 
writers" and the "free-lances." The "regulars" re- 
ceive their weekly salaries every Saturday night. 
They always know exactly the amount of money that 
will be put into their hands when they walk up to 
the cashier's little window. The "space-writers," 
though they are engaged to work for one particular 
paper and are expected to report every day for orders, 
are paid according to the amount of space they fill 
up in the paper — so much per column, or so much 
per thousand words. They live by their wits, and 
the state in which they live is good or poor, accord- 
ing to the state of their wits. If they are especially 
brilliant and fertile of imagination, inventive, quick 
at seeing through stone walls and, last, but not least, 
in good favor with the editors under whose direction 
they are expected to work, they prosper exceedingly 
and their takings-in at the end of the week are apt 
to be very large, though variable. Among the "space- 
writers" there are two kinds, the ordinary and th? 
special. The ordinary ones are paid what are known 
as the ordinary or regular rates; the special ones 
receive the extraordinary or special rates, which may 



194 THE AUTOBIOGEAPHY 

be a third more than the ordinary, or may be double, 
triple, or quadruple. 

The "free-lances" are not engaged to work for any 
particular paper for any particular length of time. 
They flit hither and thither with ideas and articles, 
getting an acceptance here, a rejection there; or they 
work entirely on order, which means having their 
articles ordered and accepted before they are writ- 
ten ; and of the "free-lances" also there are two kinds. 
There are the stragglers, who form what may be called 
the one class. They write "on spec' " as it is called. 
They carry or send their articles to the various 
papers, and then they wait and watch the papers to 
see if their contributions appear; for the average 
New York newspaper editor lacks either the courte- 
ousness or the time, or both, to write and tell an 
unknown outside "free-lance" whether or not his or 
her article is useful or useless. In that he differs 
from the average London editor, who, in many cases, 
even though stamps have not been inclosed, will 
write, returning the article, or saying he finds it suit- 
able and expects to use it. As for the New York 
editor he is apt to pay no attention to the stamps, 
even if they are inclosed. If the article is useless he 
throws it into his waste basket, and, quite as likely as 
not, the stamps along with it. If he wants the article, 
he puts it on a spindle or in a pigeon-hole. In either 
case, the sender of the manuscript watches and waits, 
sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks, sometimes 
for months; although it is only the beginner, the 
inexperienced one, who waits and hopes after two or 
three weeks have passed. If the "free-lance" has 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 195 

neglected or been too poor to buy every copy of the 
paper to which the article has been sent, it may ap- 
pear and the sender know nothing of it. In London, 
the "free-lance" at least knows of the article's publi- 
cation in the course of time by the check that is 
received in payment for it. 

In New York the system of payment to outside 
contributors who do not go regularly to the office is 
very different, and most unpleasantly different at 
that. The editor sends down to the cashier an order 
for a certain amount of money to be paid to a certain 
person. The cashier picks out the exact amount of 
money, puts it in a small envelope, seals it up, writes 
the name of the person to whom it is due, and the 
amount, on the outside, and puts it away to remain 
until called for. If the person for whom it is in- 
tended does not call, the money remains in the office. 
Now this system of payment is as stupid and as sense- 
less as it is unkind and unfair; but before going on 
to tell the extent of its senselessness and unfairness, 
I will explain what is the second kind of "free- 
lance," after which I can tell my own experience with 
what I found to be the system of paying outside con- 
tributors. 

As the one kind of "free-lance" is made up of the 
stragglers and beginners, so the second division of 
"free-lances" is made up of the well-to-do, or the 
supposedly well-to-do, the experienced and success- 
ful. In a word, the second division of "free-lances" 
takes in writers who are prominent, whose names are 
well known among all editors and to the public, and 
who, to a very great extent, are able to command 



196 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

their own prices, because of the recognized value of 
their work, especially if it appears under their names, 
which is generally the case. They are the ones who 
work on order and whose work is accepted before it 
is written. They suggest their subjects to the edi- 
tors, or have subjects suggested to them by the paper 
which desires their work, and the subject being 
agreed upon, also the price, they write with the 
knowledge that what they are writing will appear in 
print. They carry on their business in the same way 
as does a merchant who shows a possible customer a 
sample of ribbon or lace or cloth. 

"You like the sample ?" asks the merchant. 

"Yes," answers the customer, "I will take ten 
yards of it." 

Says the "free-lance" to the New York editor, 
"You like this idea?" 

"Yes," returns the editor, "write me two columns 
on that subject at such and such price per column," 
and the transaction is settled. 

Now, it was in such wise, as a "free-lance" of the 
second, and, sometimes thought mueh-to-be-envied, 
sort, that I at first took up journalism in Few York 
after my four years' stay in England. I had made 
a stir and a name in London. The notices I had 
received in the English papers had been copied and 
commented upon in the American papers. Even 
much of the work I had done in London papers had 
been reproduced, two weeks after its first appear- 
ance, in the press of my native land. I returned 
home a "heroine" as I had been a "heroine" in Lon- 
don, and was met at the dock by reporters to inter- 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 197 

view me and telegrams from editors asking me to 
send them some special articles at the earliest pos- 
sible moment; and I was in no way averse to com- 
plying with the requests of both the interviewers and 
the editors. 

With the interviewers, being myself an inter- 
viewer, I was as good-natured and tactful as only an 
interviewer can fully appreciate the necessity of 
being, and they, in turn, treated me with such kind- 
ness and consideration as all American interviewers 
show to interviewees who treat them properly. 
Having been, and being still, myself, upon occasion, 
frequently called to take first one part and then the 
other in the interviewing business, I have had every 
opportunity of arriving at an impartial judgment 
upon the subject. With those persons, be they Amer- 
icans, Englishmen, or foreigners, who have only un- 
pleasant things to say of American interviewers, I 
have no patience, and if they find themselves written 
up by the American interviewers in a distinctly un- 
pleasant way, I have little sympathy with them, for 
they have, in nine cases out of ten, brought on their 
own troubles by their disagreeableness and lack of 
tact. If a distinguished foreigner, visiting America, 
kicks an interviewer downstairs, he has only himself 
to blame if he is not described in the next morning's 
paper as being a polite, gentlemanly, and altogether 
kind and considerate man. If an author, artist or 
actor treats an interviewer with unkindness, discour- 
tesy, tactlessness, and hypocrisy, the young woman 
reporter must be an angel, indeed, if she heaps coals 
of fire upon that head when she writes up the account 



198 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

of her visit. I have used the word "hypocrisy/' for 
it is frequently that and nothing else that makes a 
public person say to the interviewer, "I object to 
being noticed in the newspapers." Public persons 
may object to having their private affairs aired in 
the newspapers, but they neither object, nor can they 
afford to object, to newspaper notice in a general 
way. The statesman, the author, the artist or the 
actress, who says, "I don't care anything about the 
newspapers and don't want ever to be written up in 
the press!" is either lacking in common sense or is 
hypocritical. To object, courteously and decently, 
to being interviewed on certain subjects, is one thing, 
and within every one's right; to speak in terms of 
contempt and independence of the American press 
and the American interviewers, is quite another. 

To persons about to be interviewed, I would here 
venture to give some advice. It is not the well-known 
advice of Punch — "Don't." It is this: Remember 
the Golden Rule and do unto the interviewer as you 
would like him or her to do unto you if your places 
were exchanged — and don't be too sure that they 
won't be exchanged, sometime, too ! Remember also 
that the interviewer is, after all, working for a living. 
The young, bright, smart-looking girl who meets you 
at the steamer as you arrive in New York, or flies 
after you to your hotel, and says, "I want to inter- 
view you for my paper! What do you think of 
America? Are you in the habit of eating bacon and 
eggs, or only eggs without bacon or bacon without 
eggs, for your breakfast?" may be a "space-writer" 
or a "free-lance" on one of New York's papers, whose 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 199 

very life may depend upon her getting that inter- 
view with you. She does not interview you for fun. 
She does not take any particular interest in you. She 
would rather be somewhere else than waiting at the 
dock for your steamer to come in. You are perhaps 
nothing but a stupid, uninteresting, ugly old thing, 
who happens to be a public character, and her editor 
has told her to go and interview you, and will pay 
her five or ten dollars, if she succeeds. By discover- 
ing the kind of breakfast you eat, she will be able 
to provide wholesome food for herself for the coming 
week. Tell her, in heaven's name, about the bacon ! 
Tell her, if she asks you, whether you take one, two 
or three lumps of sugar in your tea, and what you 
think of "our great country" as far as you have seen 
it. It can't hurt you, and it will help her, and then, 
even if you are stupid and uninteresting and ugly, 
you will at least have been kind and helped an honest 
straggler on her way. And, besides, if you are kind 
and courteous, she will "do you up" in the next day's 
paper in such a way that nobody on the American 
side will suspect how very stupid and ugly and un- 
interesting you really are. 

But to return to my own experience as a "free- 
lance." I began it under most auspicious circum- 
stances. Photographed, written about, and inter- 
viewed right and left, I began myself to write and 
interview for various papers, thus gaining my first 
experience in New York journalism. Orders and 
requests for special articles followed one another in 
quick succession, and terms considerably higher than 
those ordinarily paid, were offered me, and I rejoiced 



200 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

exceedingly, for whatever money I could earn was 
needed. 

I was greatly surprised, however, when many days 
and weeks passed after my articles appeared in print, 
and no checks came to me through the post. Some 
of the articles I had seen in the papers, others I had 
not happened to see, though I knew they must have 
been printed. 

"Have you used any of my articles yet?" I asked 
of an editor who had given me a large number of 
orders, but from whom as yet I had received no 
checks. 

"Of course !" he replied. "I've used all your stuff, 
and I'm ready for more suggestions from you for 
subjects. You must have known they were used, 
anyway, when you got your pay, for we never pay till 
after publication." 

"I haven't got any pay, and that's the reason I've 
been wondering why you didn't use them," I an- 
swered. 

"Now, see here! You can't collect twice, even if 
you are 'the American girl from London' !" he re- 
torted. "We only pay once for articles this side the 
water, and you needn't tell me they do any better by 
you on the other side." 

"I haven't got paid once," I declared; "and it's 
not only your paper. I've had the same experience 
with several papers. They order articles and pub- 
lish them, and that's the last I hear of them. The 
papers in London send out checks once a week or 
once a month. In this country you are slower. I 
judge you send them out once in six months or once 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 201 

a year, and I don't mind telling you that I've got 
down to my last fifty cents waiting for my various 
returns from the newspapers." 

"I wasn't talking about checks/' said the editor. 
"I asked you if you'd got your pay, and do you mean 
to say you haven't got your money for any of the 
articles you've done for me ? If they didn't give it to 
you the first Saturday, why didn't you let me know ?" 

"If who didn't give it to me?" 

"Why, the cashier! What did he say when you 
asked him?" 

"I never asked the cashier. I'm not on your staff 
and have no acquaintance with the cashier." 

"That's just it! If he'd known you, he'd have 
handed it out to you on sight, but, as he didn't know 
you, I don't see that it would have been such a breach 
of etiquette for you to speak to him without an intro- 
duction. It may be English, but it isn't American." 

"Do you mean to say I'm expected to call at the 
cashier's office and ask for my money?" I inquired. 

"Yes! You can't expect him to call on you with 
it. If you go to the cashier now, and tell him who 
you are and that you want your pay, you'll get it." 

Sure enough, when I went to the cashier, and 
asked for my pay, he handed me out various little 
envelopes which he had kept stored away for several 
weeks. 

"I've been wondering when you'd call for it," he 
said, good-naturedly. "Thought you couldn't need 
it as much as the rest of them do." 

It was in this way that I learned the system by 
which many of the American papers pay their out- 



202 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

side contributors. Again I say it is unkind, unfair, 
and absolutely senseless. One's first thought would 
be that the system obtained favor among newspaper 
proprietors because it gave them the use of the 
money until the contributor called for it; that the 
money was drawing interest while it waited to be 
called for. Not so ! If that were the case, it would 
be unfair, though not stupid. The money owing to 
each contributor is put in an envelope as soon as it 
is due. The contributor may not call ; yet the money 
remains in the envelope no matter if it is for three 
or four or five or six weeks. For the next article 
that contributor sends, another bit of money goes 
into another envelope, and so on for any number of 
weeks and months. I do not say that every Ameri- 
can or every New York paper is managed in this 
way, but I know from my own experience that many 
of them are, and that it is a system that should be 
abolished in every newspaper office. For the mem- 
bers of the staff, employed in the office, the little 
envelope method of payment is quite satisfactory, 
but certainly it is not right to expect the occasional 
contributor, who lives in the uppermost parts of 
Harlem, to go down to Newspaper Eow, spending 
two hours time and ten cents car fare, to collect the 
two dollars and seventy-five cents that is coming to 
him. I am not sure of just the exact number of 
miles residence away from Newspaper Eow that en- 
titles a contributor to have his payment sent to him 
by check or money order. London is, however, "out- 
side the circuit" and therefore contributors residing 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 203 

in London are not expected to call for their en- 
velopes ! 

"Free-lancing," even of the most successful kind, 
is but an unsatisfactory and irregular way of earning 
a living, unless one has an income aside from jour- 
nalistic work, and I had not been back in my native 
land more than a few months, when a financial catas- 
trophe befell me, from the effects of which, I knew, no 
amount of "free-lance" work could deliver me. I 
looked from my high window one morning at the 
spires and the sky-scrapers of New York with eyes 
full of terror and a heart full of despair. So great 
and urgent was my need of money that the days of 
hard-upedness that I had known in London counted 
as nothing in their insignificance. There was, to be 
sure, some money waiting for me at various offices in 
little envelopes, but, when I had spent a morning in 
collecting it, that was but a drop in the bucket of 
my needs. 

"I can't be a 'free-lance' any longer," I said to 
myself. "I must get a place as a 'regular,' so that I 
can count on a certain amount of money every week. 
Nothing else can save me." 

I called on the editor of one of New York's high- 
class newspapers. He had taken work from me and 
called it "good stuff." 

"Give me a position on your paper at a regular 
weekly salary," I said to him. 

"Ridiculous ! ridiculous !" he exclaimed. "Remain 
a 'free-lance' and you'll make a great deal more than 
you would get on salary." 



204 THE AUTOBIOGEAPHY 

"But I want something regular. Something sure 
to come every Saturday." 

"You say you want a salary. How big a one ?" 

"I must have at the least forty dollars a week," I 
replied. 

"I don't say you're not worth it, but I do say I 
couldn't engage you at half that amount. I couldn't 
even take you on space, though you know I'm always 
glad of special articles from you. Must you have 
the forty sure every week?" 

"I must have that positively, and as much more as 
I can make. I've got obligations to meet which de- 
mand it. If I don't get a regular salary, I shall go 
under." 

He looked at me in a half surprise that was wholly 
kind, and, going over to the window, said: — 

"See here ! I'll show you the way !" and pointing 
to some buildings in the distance, went on: "There, 
in one of those buildings, you will find a salary, 
bigger than forty, waiting for you. I happen to 
know that you have but to ask, or rather to hint that 
you are open to an engagement, and your difficulties 
will be over." 

I looked, and the sunlight, sparkling on a dome of 
gold, almost blinded my eyes. 

"You mean," I said, in amazement, "that I must 
become a 'yellow journalist'?" 

"Yes," he returned, "why not?" 

"Oh, I couldn't ! You don't know how hard I've 
worked over in London to get up the few rungs of 
the ladder I've already climbed. Why, I write for 
the best magazines and reviews ! I look forward to 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 205 

a career in the literary world ; even to the time when 
I may be able to stop writing pot-boilers. I've heard 
of this terrible ' yellow journalism' of my own coun- 
try, and have been ashamed. I could not be asso- 
ciated, even anonymously, with a 'yellow journal.' 
It would ruin my whole future career." 

"No, you couldn't anonymously. Of that I can 
assure you. They'll want your name. But let me 
tell you that your attitude is not that of a sensible, or 
even an honest, woman. I gather that if you don t 
get this money you need, others will suffer as well as 
yourself. I have told you the way to get it, and you 
will not take that way. Therefore, I say, you are 
not acting the part of an honest woman." 

"Yes, you have shown me a way, but it is the way 
of death — death to all my ambitions !" 

"No ! It is the way of life ! Listen ! I have no 
liking for sensational journalism. I'm sorry we have 
so much of it in this country. I wish great million- 
aires would use their money to start high-class maga- 
zines, academies of literature and art and things of 
that sort; but I can't govern the millionaires, and 
neither can you. In starting these 'yellow journals,' 
however, they haven't done all evil. For one thing 
— they have raised the price of all newspaper work, 
not only in New York, but in other large cities of 
America, and I'm not sure they haven't had an effect 
upon the prices paid in England. By paying high 
fees and large salaries to their people, the 'yellow 
journals' have forced the other papers to increase 
their rates, or lose all their best men and women. 



206 THE AUTOBIOGEAPHY 

That's one good thing they've done, and, as a news- 
paper man, I thank them for it. 

"Why, what sort of writers do yon think are work- 
ing over yonder? They are writers of the highest 
talents. Some of the most brilliant, most honest, 
most pnre and upright women I have ever known 
have been employed on the 'yellow journals.' Some 
of them left papers like this to join the 'yellow' ranks. 
They were like you. They needed more money than 
we could afford to pay them, but, unlike you, they 
went and did their duty without so much as a whim- 
per. Some of them can write things worthy to be 
handed down to the coming generations, poems and 
prose that should be bound in fine leather and kept 
among the standard works; they have brilliancy and 
wit and humor. But they've got to have money just 
now. I expect they've got obligations to meet, and 
they're honest women." 

"I also will be an honest woman. I will go," I 
said. 

So I went, and became a "yellow journalist." 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 207 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

IN THE KINGDOM OF THE "YELLOW." 

I started my career as "yellow journalist" on a 
salary of fifty dollars a week, and, some months 
afterwards, changing from one paper to another, I 
took a position on what is known as the "guarantee 
space" system, by which means a member of the staff 
is guaranteed a stipulated sum of money every week, 
and as much over that amount as he or she can make 
by writing at ordinary or special space-rates. This 
latter is probably the most profitable way of working 
on the staff of a newspaper, for, though one's income 
may — indeed must — fluctuate, it fluctuates never 
below the guaranteed amount, which in my case was 
in itself a liberal salary, and, during weeks when 
news and happenings are plentiful and one's wits are 
at their best, it is by no means an uncommon thing 
for a "guarantee-space" staff writer to make between 
one hundred and one hundred and fifty dollars per 
week. 

Out of my income I laid aside fifteen dollars each 
week for living expenses. By practicing strict econ- 
omy, I made that sum suffice for all my personal 
needs, and the rest of my income went into the bank, 
and, so week by week, as I worked and saved, I saw 
my financial troubles gradually disappearing. There 



208 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

are, I know, both in England and America, many 
working women who would laugh at the idea of one 
having to practice very great economy in order to 
live comfortably on fifteen dollars a week, but these 
women to whom fifteen dollars a week would seem a 
fortune know nothing of the life which the average 
New York woman journalist, engaged on the staff of 
a paper, must lead, and none of the constant calls 
upon her purse. What are known as "expenses" are, 
of course, always paid by the paper, but there are 
many necessary outlays which the management of 
the paper would not pay and could not be expected 
to pay, that the woman journalist must continually 
take into account, if she aspires to success and pro- 
motion, or even to retaining the position she has. 

Now, the most important and necessary expendi- 
ture of the ambitious woman journalist is for clothes. 
One of the great requisites of the newspaper woman 
is that she shall dress well. When I say "well" I do 
not mean mere neatness of dress. The newspaper 
woman, if she would be successful, needs not only to 
be neat, she must be stylish and smart. It is also as 
necessary for her to understand "dressing her part" 
as it is for the actress on the stage. And the woman 
who can do this besides paying her board and lodging 
expenses, on fifteen dollars a week, must be pos- 
sessed of no little ingenuity and cleverness, besides 
practicing economy in such ways as many another 
woman, or man either for that matter, with a much 
smaHer amount per week, would never dream of. 

On the staff of a great New York daily there are 
numerous "plums" to be plucked, prizes to be won, by 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 209 

the women workers, and all other things being equal 
— indeed all other things, such as intellectual bril- 
liancy, etc., being very unequal, at times — these 
plums and prizes fall to the lot of those women who 
best know how to "dress their part." Now, the editor 
who thus distributes the great prizes shows neither 
injustice nor partiality in doing so; he shows only 
that he understands good business methods. The 
woman who is dressed smartly, and, of course, in 
good taste, can gain admittance, get a hearing and 
obtain an interview where her intellectual superior, 
dressed only "neatly" and looking sternly prim, will 
fail. The woman who continually fails to get what 
she is sent for, will, if she is on salary, either lose 
her position or never get her salary raised, and if she 
is "on space" will soon find the editors with "no- 
work-on-hand-to-day-sorry — hope - something- will - 
turn-up-to-morrow" attitudes. Therefore, it is good 
business for the newspaper woman to establish the 
reputation of being a "good dresser.' 

I had not been long engaged in American journal- 
ism when I heard two of the leading members of the 
staff discussing the probabilities of obtaining an in- 
terview with a very great and eminent personage, 
and a man very difficult of access to the newspapers. 

"Better send Miss ," said one of the men, 

"she's got the style of writing that'll do him up to 
perfection." 

"Great Heavens ! What are you thinking of ?" re- 
turned the other. "She's absolutely useless in an 
emergency like this. She's such a dowdy in dress 
that she couldn't get beyond the office boy. No ! The 



210 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

only woman who can haul this thing off is Miss X. 
Shell get through the outer offices of clerks straight 
into the holy of holies, into the presence of the old 
man himself, just on her appearance. I'd like to 
see one of the clerks try to turn her down. She's got 
a new Knox and a tailor-made on this morning that'll 
beat the whole 'f our hundred' when it comes to dress- 
ing. I'm going to send her." 

Now, Miss X. went to the personage and, in news- 
paper parlance, "brought off" the interview. In dis- 
cussing the affair afterwards with some of her women 
friends, she said : "Girls, I couldn't have done it, if 
it hadn't been for the clothes. I had that confidence 
in myself that only comes when I know I've got a 
stunning costume on. I carried my alligator card- 
case and my ivory-handled umbrella, and with them 
I waved aside the office boys and the clerks and got 
to the door of the great man's office. I tell you what, 
if clothes don't make the interviewer, they give her 
a vast amount of confidence ! Now, my rig-out, silk 
foundations and all, cost me sixty dollars, and I was 
paid one hundred for bringing off this interview. I 
therefore say I have made forty dollars to-day, and 
it's not a bad taking-in." 

Miss X. was a "space-writer." She lived in a little 
flat away up-town with her mother, who was slowly 
dying of an incurable disease. The forty dollars she 
made that day went to a physician, who was trying, 
not to save the mother's life, since that was impos- 
sible, but only to lessen for the coming weeks the 
pain of dying. 

It was very early in my career that I learned how 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 211 

truly my editorial friend had spoken when he told 
me that the path which I chose, though perforce and 
so protestingly, would prove to be, to me, the way 
of life, and that there I should find salvation from 
faults and failings and much short-sightedness, 
which, if unarrested, would be but stumbling-blocks 
to progress. Not for all women could the career I 
then entered upon have become a means of grace, nor 
did I find it a school which I could indiscriminately 
recommend all aspiring young women journalists to 
attend. Better far it would be for some young 
women to struggle always, never succeeding, to suffer 
cold and hunger, and in the end to die, failures, than 
to become part and parcel of American sensational 
journalism. All women must go to school, it is true, 
but the same school is not good for all women. There 
are varieties of schools as there are varieties of 
women, and the teachers from whom one woman 
learns what will save her soul may be the means only 
of showing another how to lose hers. 

For myself I can thank the fate that sent me back 
to my native land after my four years' residence in 
England and made it absolutely necessary for me to 
become a "yellow journalist." But I also thank the 
fate that endowed me with a certain kind of reason- 
ing power that helped me to distinguish between 
what I could and could not do, as a "yellow journal- 
ist," and still retain my womanhood and self-respect, 
and I can especially thank the fate that endowed me 
at my birth with a particularly prominent self- 
assertive and combative disposition that enabled me 
to recognize my rights and then to fight to the death, 



212 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

if necessary, to maintain them. These things, com- 
bined with the very important fact that I had made 
for myself something of a name in England and had 
returned to my own country as a "heroine," made my 
position a far more independent and endurable one 
than it could possibly have been in other circum- 
stances. 

The very first thing I was asked to do in the line 
of "yellow" work, was to walk along Broadway at 
midnight and "allow" myself to be arrested and sent 
to the lock-up as a disreputable character — all this 
in order to bring about a reform in certain laws that 
were obnoxious to many New Yorkers, and to prove 
without a doubt that a respectable woman walking 
quietly to her home late at night, was liable to be 
pounced upon and arrested. 

"I can't do that sort of work," I said to the editor 
who had suggested this brilliant "scoop." 

"You can't do it !" he exclaimed in surprise. "It's 
something that ought to be done, and you're the 
woman to do it. You've got a name and a reputa- 
tion, and your name signed to an article exposing 
this great wrong would add prestige." 

"I'm afraid I think rather too much of my name 
to make use of it for that purpose," I returned. "If 
my name would add prestige to your scheme, I'm 
sure the scheme wouldn't lend prestige to my name ! 
Now, what other work have you got on hand which 
you would like me to do?" 
N "Other work ? You mean to say that you refuse V 

"Certainly. It is indecent, and I refuse to do any- 
thing that I consider indecent." 



OF A "NEWSPAPEK GIKL" 213 

"Well!" exclaimed the editor, tilting back his 
chair, and eyeing me with great curiosity. "We took 
yon on this paper to help ns make things hnm. I 
understood yon made things hnm over in England." 

I laughed. "Perhaps it doesn't need such an im- 
petus to 'make things hum' in London as it does in 
New York. At any rate I never did any work there 
of which I am ashamed. I'm ready to do any work 
for you that an editor has a right to ask of a woman, 
and I don't mind if it is very hard and even unpleas- 
ant. Now, what is there for me to start on to-day, 
or do you want me to think up a subject?" 

"Why, you're a puzzle ! I'd like to know what kind 
of work you are willing to do. I don't exactly know 
where to place you." 

"I'll tell you, then," I answered. "I'll do any 
work on this paper that you would be willing to ask 
your sister to do if she were employed on it." 

"What!" he exclaimed, turning round with an 
amused look of astonishment on his face. 

"Yes, that's the only kind of work I'm willing to 
do," I said laughing, for I was not to be outdone by 
him in good-nature. "You're an American man and 
I'm an American woman, though we are both 'yellow 
journalists,' and I demand from you the respectful 
chivalry that every American man is bound to show 
his countrywomen. The fact that you are my editor 
and I your subordinate in a business sense, makes no 
difference. I will modify what I said about the sis- 
ter. If your sister were employed here you would 
try not to send her out on assignments that would 
be apt to endanger her health and break her up phy- 



214 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

sically. You needn't think about that in my case. 
Ill take whatever risks are necessary in that respect; 
but I look to you to see that I am not asked to do any 
work that's objectionable." 

"Well, speaking for myself, I won't ask you to do, 
any work that you can object to hereafter, but, of 
course, you know there are other editors on the paper 
that will suggest subjects to you." 

"I'll refuse them the way I have refused you," I 
answered, and went back to my desk. 

For the next few days I was kept rather busy refus- 
ing, until the nickname of "the great objector" was 
given to me in a good-natured sort of banter by the 
editors and reporters. 

Finally, one afternoon, I was sent for by one of 
the leading editors, who said: — 

"I'm going to give you a very important commis- 
sion. You are to take charge of the Holland Boat." 

It was a little while before the beginning of the 
war with Spain, and all New York, indeed all 
America, was greatly interested in the little sub- 
marine to which the inventor had given his name. 

"How take charge ?" I asked. 

"You know where it's stationed?" inquired the 
editor. 

"Yes," I returned, naming the little village a few 
miles outside of New York, which Mr. Holland had 
chosen as the place from which to make his experi- 
mental trips. 

"I want you to go there every day, or a dozen times 
a day, and discover exactly when the first trip is to be 
made, for Holland has been very close-mouthed on 



OF A "NEWSPAPEK GIKL" 215 

the subject. Then, make your arrangements to be 
inside that boat the first time she goes under the 
water." 

"You mean to sneak in?" I asked. "I don't be- 
lieve it's possible to get in there as a stowaway. 
There's nothing but a little funnel that you've got 
to climb down to get into the boat." 

"Of course, you'll have to get Holland's consent, 
for there's no other way, but you must get it! He is 
not much of a talker about his intentions, and the 
men we've sent to him can't get anything out of him ; 
but you understand you are not only to find out when 
that boat's going under water, but you're to go under 
with it." 

"Very well !" I answered, and then I noted that he 
was looking at me curiously. 

"You know you're rather a hard one to find assign- 
ments for, with your English notions of what's cor- 
rect and ladylike in journalism," he said, medita- 
tively. 

"I've only demanded decent work that a decent 
woman might do," I answered. 

"That's what I thought," he said, musingly ; "that 
you'd rather do the dangerous than the — well, we'll 
say, unladylike work. Still I don't say this is dan- 
gerous." 

I looked quickly at his face, and saw there an 
expression that startled me, and I knew at once that 
this commission was, if not a dangerous, at least a 
very risky one. But I pretended not to have noticed 
either his words or his face, for I determined very 



216 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

suddenly what course I should pursue, and I only 
answered quietly : — 

"I'll go and see Mr. Holland." 

That was the only time in my journalistic career 
that I started out on a mission with the full deter- 
mination to make a failure of it. I had been asked 
by my editor to climb down a funnel into a boat not 
much larger than a big fish, that was going out ex- 
perimenting. If it did what its inventor intended it 
to do it would rush through the water and come up 
in good time on the surface. Otherwise it would not 
come to the surface at all, but go down to the bottom. 
If I were in it, I too would go to the bottom. I valued 
my life, not so much for my own sake as for the sake 
of others, and I argued it out with my conscience that 
I was not, according to the eternal fitness of things, 
justly called upon to run the risk of losing it or even 
of incapacitating myself for future work, merely for 
the sake of trying to get an article on "How It Feels 
to Go Down in a Submarine Boat." 

I had become rather tired of refusing to do so 
many things that I had been asked to do since I had 
taken my position on the paper, and I decided it was 
not worth while to refuse again. Eather, I deter- 
mined, Mr. Holland must refuse to let me go in the 
boat. 

Had the occasion been an ordinary one, I would 
have gone off on my commission wearing the cloth 
skirt, striped shirt-waist, Eton jacket and sailor hat 
I was wearing at the time I was called to the editor's 
room. It was the proper costume for a working 
journalist under ordinary conditions, knocking about 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 217 

among docks and boats, getting news for her paper. 
It also, so I fancied, helped to give me a strong, 
healthy, athletic, don't-care-what-happens-to-me look. 
That was the reason I would not wear it, for I did 
not want to impress Mr. Holland as a journalist 
worth my salt. 

I went home and put on a light dress, with ruffles 
and ribbons, all white, at the neck. I donned a hat 
with a particular shade of green-facing that gave my 
already pale face an unhealthy, ghastly hue, and 
then I looked in the glass and smiled at my frail, 
delicate, feminine appearance. 

"If Mr. John Holland would allow a poor little 
thing like me to risk her life in his submarine boat, 
why, then he's a brute, that's all !" I said to myself. I 
had "dressed my part" — that of the small, delicate, 
nervous, half-frightened woman that I wished to ap- 
pear, and as I am not, I believe, without a saving 
sense of humor, I could not help laughing over the 
ludicrous aspect of my position when, an hour later, 
I had seated myself on a plank near the tiny iron 
boat, waiting for Mr. Holland to come and make one 
of his daily visits of inspection. 

"What !" exclaimed Mr. Holland, when, having 
arrived and listened to my explanation of what I had 
been sent down to do, he looked me over with aston- 
ishment. "You go down in my boat ! Climb down 
a funnel ! It's ridiculous." 

"But my paper says I must !" 

"It's useless to talk about it ! I wouldn't allow the 
risk!" 

"Is there a risk ? Is it dangerous ?" I asked, turn- 
ing a frightened-looking face upon him. 



218 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"For me, no ! For you, yes !" 

"Are you afraid the boat will never come up 
again?" I asked. 

"No ! I know it will come up again. I'm the in- 
ventor. I love it. I know all about it. I am going 
down in it without fear, because I understand. You 
would have fear because you do not understand. 
You'd not die of the going down, but you would die 
of fear. You would be actually and literally fright- 
ened to death." 

Mr. Holland looked at me curiously. "You are 
not the sort of newspaper reporter I would expect to 
come and ask for such an experience, anyway. Even 
the most strong-minded and healthy woman journal- 
ist in the world would get my refusal for many rea- 
sons, but it certainly would be criminal to allow 
anyone like you to try the experiment." 

A horrible thought crossed my mind. Suppose he 
were only refusing me on the ground of my apparent 
unfitness for the task, and suppose another woman 
journalist, of the big, fearless, athletic kind, should 
demand to go down in the boat and be permitted to 
do so! 

"Mr. Holland," I said, "since you will not allow 
me to go in your boat, will you promise that 
you will not allow any other reporter, man or woman, 
to take that trial trip? It would be a serious thing 
for me if any other reporter should be allowed to do 
this thing for another paper when I have failed." 

"Yes, I'll promise you that upon my honor! I 
wouldn't let any reporter take the trial trip anyway. 
Be assured you won't be beaten by anybody else." 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 219 

"I'm much obliged to you. I shall tell my editor 
that you absolutely and finally refuse, and insist that 
the matter be dropped?" 

"That's it, and if he wants me to put it stronger, I 
can do it." 

I went away with a sense of relief. 

"You'll have to give up that scheme about the 
Holland," I said to the editor that night, when I had 
returned to the office, after again donning my working 
costume. 

"You don't mean to say you've failed? You'd 
better try it again to-morrow. It isn't likely he'll 
make his trip for several days." 

"It is useless to approach him again on the subject. 
He was very indignant and said he wouldn't allow 
any reporter, man or woman, inside the boat. I got 
him to promise that, of course, when he so positively 
refused me, for I didn't want any other woman to get 
for another paper what I couldn't get for mine." 

"That settles it, then!" He bent over some copy 
paper, and looked up again. "You had grit to try, 
anyway ! Were you shaky at the idea ?" 

"I, shaky?" My cheeks burnt angrily, as I faced 
him, and then I was sorry, for he again bent over his 
copy paper, and as I went out of the door I thought 
I heard him mutter, "Thank God !" 



220 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 



CHAPTER XIX. 

"... AND HAVE NOT CHARITY." 

The days and the weeks and the months dragged 
on, and, first on one paper, then on another, I grad- 
ually made a particular and individual place for 
myself in New York journalism. That place was, 
I think I may say, a somewhat important one, for 
when it finally became understood what work I 
would, and what work I would not, undertake to do 
in the interest of the paper, the kind of work that I 
had neither the cause nor the right to refuse, seemed 
to rise like a mountain before me, a mountain over 
the summit of which I must climb, though the climb- 
ing were laborious, unpleasant, and painful. 

Most especially my duties took me among the lower 
class of working girls on the East Side of New York. 
I worked among the Polish and Russian Jews in the 
sweat shops, writing up the lives they led and the life 
I led among them. I picked over refuse with the 
ragpickers; made artificial flowers for the adornment 
of the hats of the working girls ; I worked as a dress- 
maker's apprentice; applied myself to the tailoring 
business; I visited the public schools, especially 
where the poorer children predominated, and made 
house-to-house visitations among New York's most 
squalid and lawless inhabitants. For some time I 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 221 

hired a room in one of the poorer districts, and, fur- 
nishing it up cheaply, started out to live on three 
dollars per week, telling each day in the paper just 
what I had to eat, and describing all my comforts 
and discomforts. There were times, too, when I was 
obliged to visit the morgue, looking at the bodies of 
the unfortunate unknowns and listening to the stories 
of the finding of these bodies, told by the keepers. 
Among the hospitals, too, I went, and sometimes to 
the jails. 

A great deal of my work was very horrible, very 
loathsome, to me. I was obliged to run risks and 
encounter dangers that even now that they are long 
past make me shudder and wonder how I got through 
them. I had always to carry with me spirits of cam- 
phor and smelling salts, for I was continually feeling 
ill and faint from the foul odors that assailed me, 
and there were times when my heart almost stopped 
beating with fear. I remember . that this was par- 
ticularly the case one night when, in order to write 
up what the cheap women's lodging houses of the city 
were like, I slept in one where I gained admission 
for the price of fifteen cents. The sleeping room 
was a sort of dormitory where some thirty or forty 
women slept, each having a cot of her own. I awoke 
in the night and saw a woman sitting on the edge 
of her bed, not far from mine. She was looking at 
me in a strangely-staring way, and my first thought 
was that she was a mad woman who was going to kill 
me. Of course, she was not mad. She was only 
sitting up and thinking of her troubles, poor thing ! 
but that made no difference so far as my state of 



222 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

mind was concerned. I worked myself into a frenzy 
of fear and early the next morning I left the place, 
to write up my experience a day or two later. 

"The Way of Life !" Truly, I now began to walk 
in that Way ! Truly I began to grow ! As the days 
and the weeks went on I could even feel myself grow- 
ing, growing in grace, growing in charity, putting 
aside such narrow creeds and prejudices as had been 
a part of my up-bringing, and were, perhaps, in their 
place and time, good and wholesome for the girl, but 
cramping, distorting, warping to the woman. Life ! 
Life ! Seething life was all about me. The life of 
a great city, its riches, its poverty, its sin, its virtue, 
its sorrows, it joyousness — there it was, and I was 
in it. This life was no longer like a panorama spread 
out for me to look at simply, to smile or weep over 
and then to turn away my eyes from beholding it. I 
entered it and, while I studied, became a part of it, 
learning how akin was all humanity, after all, and 
how large a place had environment and circumstance 
in the making of character and the molding of 
destiny. 

One day I talked with a murderess. The woman 
had killed a man. At first I did not want to go to 
her, to see her, to speak to her. There was blood 
upon her hands, and to me there was something ter- 
rible in the thought of the shedding of blood. I had 
so great a horror of inflicting physical pain upon any 
creature, that the thought of coming into contact 
with a woman who had sent a soul into the "Unknown, 
was akin to the horror I would have felt at allowing 
my hand to touch that of a vivisector, and that horror 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 223 

is one I have never attempted nor desired to control. 
I was going to see a woman who had killed, I who 
stooped and picked up worms from my path and 
placed them in secluded places that they might not 
be trod upon; I who daily carried wounded kittens 
and lame dogs to the Society for the Prevention of 
Cruelty to Animals, to have them healed or pain- 
lessly put to sleep ; I who would not fish though the 
brooks ran with trout ; I who would not cage a bird — 
I to go and talk with a murderess ! 

Yet I went! I looked into her face, I took her 
hand — the right hand that had killed. I talked 
with her, and while we talked my tears fell upon that 
right hand of hers, as I said : — 

"You are not a bad woman! Oh, how could you 
kill, how could you kill ?" 

"No V she said, "I am not a bad woman. If any- 
body had told me a year ago that I should do murder, 
I would have laughed. Believe me, none of us know 
what we can or will do until the temptation comes. 
Why !" she exclaimed, looking into my face scrutiniz- 
ingly, "even you might kill, under provocation !" 

"I \" 

Her eyes met mine as I made the exclamation, and 
then I went away and wrote never a word concerning 
my visit to the woman. I had not been sent by an 
editor. I had gone of my own accord, or, rather, of 
my own impelling. 

There came a time when suddenly those terrible, 
warning words of the woman came back to me, when 
they rang in my ears, and in their ringing made me 
humble, teaching me anew the Lesson of Charity. 



224 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 



CHAPTER XX. 

A LITTLE JOYOUSNESS AND SOME TRAGEDY. 

It has always been my fortune, when employed 
upon American newspapers, to be associated with men, 
as co-workers, who could be aptly described by the 
term, "jolly good fellows." As they were out West and 
down South, so I found them in New York. There 
existed between the men and the women who worked 
together on the staff a spirit of comradeship and good 
fellowship that was altogether delightful. I know of 
no profession in which men and women can work 
together, side by side, so pleasantly, and, I may add, 
beneficially one to the other, as in that of journalism. 
At least, this can be said of America, where no news- 
paper staff is complete without its quota of women 
reporters and editorial workers. It says much for 
the American method of bringing up boys and girls 
and educating young men and women at mixed col- 
leges, that when they are thrown together in such 
work as that known as "yellow journalism," the 
women can retain their womanliness, the men their 
manliness and attitude of free and easy comradeship 
yet respectful deference towards them. I am not 
sure whether such a state of things could exist in 
England. Probably it may in the next generation, 
when the conditions of the education and the up- 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 225 

bringing of English girls have become similar to 
those which form a part of the average American 
girl's surroundings. 

Most especially was the spirit of American chiv- 
alry exhibited by the men space-writers towards the 
women space-writers, and many a noble act of self- 
sacrifice among the men to help the women along was 
done quietly and unobtrusively away up at the top of 
a many-storied newspaper building where I was em- 
ployed during my stay in Few York. Such a kind, 
tactful, jolly way, too, had the men of performing 
these little deeds of kindness to us women ! 

"Say !" said one of the men reporters, coming over 
to me one afternoon, "I saw a hat up on Twenty- 
third street that'd suit you to a T ! It's exactly made 
for you, turn-up on the side and all ! Marked down, 
too, cheap as dirt! Seven dollars and ninety-eight 
cents!" 

I laughed. "I don't see anything very original in 
that remark," I said; "I've seen lots of hats I knew 
would suit me, which were cheap as dirt, but I 
couldn't afford to buy them!" 

"But I can tell you how to get that hat." 

"How?" I asked. 

"Why, down at the canal there are a lot of canal 
boats that are just getting ready to put out for the 
spring trip. The house-boat kind, you know, where 
the families live all the time, year in and year out. 
A story made up of a description of how those canal- 
boat women keep house, and how they stow away 
things in the little bits of rooms they have, would be 
good stuff, I know. You could work it into a ten 



226 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

dollar bill at space-rates, sure, which'd more than 
buy the hat. You'd better go and do that canal-boat 
story. The city editor would just jump at it." 

"See here ! Why don't you do that story yourself 
and make the ten dollars?" I asked, suspiciously, 
for this same young man was not above playing a 
mild practical joke occasionally. 

"Oh! Fve done well this week, and besides that's 
a girl's story. I can't write up housekeeping mat- 
ters." 

I could do very well with an extra ten dollars that 
week, so I went to the canal and got my story in for 
one of the evening editions of the next day's paper. 
I didn't get the wonderful hat. I do not fancy there 
was such a bit of head gear as that which my co- 
worker so enthusiastically described, but he was be- 
hind me when I got my pay the next Saturday after- 
noon, and he smiled good-naturedly. 

There was another time when an American man- 
o'-war was in New York harbor, and one of the 
reporters informed me that the "way those sailors of 
Uncle Sam's scrubbed and cooked and did their own 
washing and ironing, was worth two columns if it 
was worth a stick," and I went to the man-o'-war 
and got my two columns. These men were not edi- 
tors suggesting subjects, but reporters who might 
have done the extra work themselves, but the desire 
to "help along the girls" came as natural to them as 
breathing. There were always pleasant little expe- 
riences of this sort coming up, so that while my 
plunge into "yellow journalism" gave me a greater 
knowledge of the "seamy side" of life than comes to 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" '227 

the ordinary woman, it also gave me an insight into 
the lovelier, kinder, more human characteristics of 
mankind, especially the mankind of my own country, 
which I shall always thank God I have been permit- 
ted to know. 

I was present one day at the great trial of a noto- 
rious female criminal, having been sent there by my 
editor to make a character sketch of the prisoner as 
she stood at the bar. 

"Aren't you Miss Banks?" I heard a man's voice 
from behind me asking. 

"Yes," I answered, turning round to a smart- 
looking young fellow. 

"We're on the same paper," he whispered, handing 
me his card. "We haven't met yet, though. I'm art 
and you're literary, you know. What are you doing ?" 

"I'm writing a character sketch of the woman," I 
answered. 

"You ought to have a picture of her," he said. "It 
would add a lot to your word sketch." 

Before I could answer, he had pulled a bit of card- 
board and pencil from his pocket and when he had 
taken a few rapid strokes I saw that the vicious-look- 
ing countenance of the woman in front of us was be- 
ginning to appear, strangely real and lifelike, upon 
the cardboard. In ten minutes it was done and, rising 
to leave the court room, he handed it to me. 

"There ! I'll make you a present ! Four dollars ! 
Double-column cut, you know!" 

"It's perfect !" I answered. "But what shall I do 
with it?" 

"Why, hand it to the city editor with your stuff 



228 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

and it'll make your story worth four dollars more 
than it would be without it." 

"Oh ! All right !" I answered, my impression being 
that the young man was "on space" and that by illus- 
trating my story he would make four dollars extra. 
"I'll tell the city editor we did it together." 

"No! You don't catch on at all! That's because 
you're from Lunnon, I suppose. I'm on salary and 
all the work I hand in is paid for by the salary, and 
the story I came here to illustrate has nothing to do 
with the one you're writing. Space artists get paid 
two dollars a single-column cut. This'll go in as a 
double one, and that's four dollars added to the value 
of your story. What's your length ?" 

"A column," I replied. 

"At seven dollars and a half?" 

"Yes !" 

"Well, then, instead of your bill for this thing 
being seven dollars and a half, you make it eleven 
fifty ! Be sure you get it, now ! It's got nothing to 
do with my salary. I didn't do it for the paper. I 
did it for you. You hand it in just as you would a 
photograph with a story, and say 'Four dollars for 
the photograph.' See ? Good-bye ! I'm off to the art- 
room now. Three sketches to finish up in no time." 

What is it they say in England about the American 
men? "The American women are altogether fasci- 
nating, vivacious, and well-educated, but the Ameri- 
can men give so much thought to pursuing the 
'almighty dollar' that they haven't time to put on 
culture and polish." That is the way the description 
runs, I believe. Well, they did work in their shirt- 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIKL" 229 

sleeves in that newspaper office; they did have em- 
phatic, not to say occasionally profane, methods of 
expressing themselves to politicians and others who 
refused to be interviewed or went out of their way to 
give the newspapers false information ; they did often 
work overtime, making many extra dollars over and 
above what they actually needed for the necessaries 
of life; they did consider it an unpardonable sin to 
"get left" or get "scooped" or be in any way behind 
the times. They were, indeed, in many ways differ- 
ent from many of the eminent London journalists 
with whom I had then and have since been thrown 
in contact. But then, perhaps one needs to be an 
American working woman, thrown upon her own re- 
sources, engaged in a terrible struggle against fearful 
odds, eating bread one day only because she had 
earned it the day before, working side by side with 
American newspaper men, in order to understand 
them thoroughly and to know that America is indeed 
a land of chivalry ! 

It was while I was engaged in New York journal- 
ism that the Spanish-American war came on. Dur- 
ing the lives of most of us on the paper our country 
had never known a war. I was one of the few on 
the paper who could not take part in the great enthu- 
siasm that was generally felt at the thought of 
"smashing Spain to a jelly." I was very sorrowful 
during those days and could not contemplate the 
monstrous headlines that our paper was continually 
getting out, telling of victory, sickness and slaughter, 
without a shudder. I could not rejoice or laugh at 
anything connected with the war, and yet one day 



230 THE AUTOBIOGBAPHY 

a warlike message I found on my desk sent me into 
such a fit of merriment as I had not known for many 
a week: — 

"notice to quit 
"wearing that red and yellow necktie ! 

"It having been observed by the male members of 
the staff that you did yesterday appear upon these 
wholly and purely American premises, with your 
neck bound in colors red and yellow, like unto the 
style of the hated flag of Spain, it is hereby ordered 
that you take it off, and that right quickly, substi- 
tuting for it the necktie herewith presented. Other- 
wise— — " 

Here followed a pen-and-ink sketch of a woman, 
looking remarkably like myself, stabbed through the 
throat with the stars and stripes, underneath which 
was written "Sic semper traitor ess!" 

Heaven knows that the compromising colors of the 
new necktie I had worn the day before and which I 
had on the morning when I found this notice upon 
my desk were the result of accident. It was a really 
beautiful and artistic bit of neckwear which I had 
bought at a very high price on Broadway. I speedily 
replaced the red and yellow thing with the one of 
the male reporters' choosing. It was one of the 
"patriotic neckties" so popular at that time, and so 
cleverly and artistically designed, that, though it had 
in it the colors red, white, and blue, they were not 
made conspicuous; it looked like an ordinary pretty 
fringed tie. As an evidence of good faith, I sent the 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 231 

objectionable and discarded necktie to the reportorial 
room, and the office boy who carried it there reported 
that it was turned into a huge lighter for pipes. 

I have spoken of the enthusiasm that attended the 
beginning of this, the first war of our generation. 
There came a time a few weeks later in that news- 
paper office, as well as in many others throughout 
the country, when the prolongation of the war be- 
came a tragedy in the lives of many of the writers 
for the press, and especially was this so among the 
space-writers, who had no fixed incomes, taking in 
money only according to the amount of acceptable 
work they did. Those who, like myself, had a certain 
guarantee in lieu of salary, every week, did not feel 
the tragic effects as did those who were but ordinary 
space-writers. 

"War! war! war! Get up something about the 
war ! No use writing about other subjects ! People 
may be born and married and buried, may commit 
suicide and murder, they may starve, they may steal, 
they may corrupt and be corrupted and be betrayed 
and blackmailed, but let you these things alone and 
write about the war !" would be the cry of the editors. 

"What's that? A baby found dead in the East 
river ? Thrown there by the mother, you say ? What ? 
A new hospital scandal? Strike? Did you say a 
thousand men were on strike at the mills? Oh! 
but I tell you there's no room! Give every one of 
those subjects a stick, and not a bit over a stick 
apiece ! That's it ! Now, you're talking sense ! That's 
the ticket ! Write a column telling how all the society 
girls are going in for studying at 'the first aid to the 



232 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

injured classes/ Certainly! That's another good 
subject ! All the boys in the public schools forming 
into companies and regiments and being drilled by 
the teachers, to keep the spirit of patriotism and love 
of the flag in their little souls ! Great ! Column and 
a half and pictures of the boy captains and colonels ! 
Oh ! did you ever ! Mrs. Yere de Vere doing a turn 
at a society function as a skirt dancer with the legend 
'To Hell with Spain V pinned on her skirt ! Yes ! 
Head it 'Petticoat Warfare' and send it up !" 

Thus went the day and the night, and those who 
could not do "war stories" fared not sumptuously, 
but sneaked around the corner to the restaurants 
where they got a stand-up luncheon for fifteen cents. 
Oh ! the scramble after inspirations that had in them 
the hint of blood and war ! The religious editor be- 
came a war poet and rhymed "battle" with "cattle" 
and "gore" with "bore." The sports editor devoted 
his hitherto undiscovered talents to evolving allitera- 
tive headlines wherein the public were informed that 
"Hell Haunts Hispano." Special editions followed 
one after the other every three or four minutes, and 
five minutes after a bit of news came "from the 
front" the newsboys were selling it, all printed •• 
headlined, in the street. More than ever in those 
days space-writers lived by their wits, for it was no 
easy matter for men and women living in New York, 
far away from the actual war, to get up a column or 
two or three columns every day on some subject ap- 
pertaining to the war, that nobody else had thought 
of. Originality and quick thinking were at a pre- 
mium, and God pity those who could not at command 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 233 

turn their thoughts warward and dip their pens into 
blood ! While battles were being waged in Cuba and 
the Philippines, battles also were fought in the New 
York newspaper offices, battles in which, if blood was 
not shed, hands trembled, hearts and heads ached 
with the fearful strain put upon them of thinking, 
always thinking, how to get the means of living, since 
live they must! In Cuba they died; in New York 
they lived, and how much more painful and horrible 
was the living than the dying could possibly have 
been, none but those who struggled through that time 
can tell! 

One day I met a brilliant young newspaper man 
near the City Hall Park. He was loitering as one 
who had no aim in life, no object in view. 

"I can't walk with you if you dilly-dally along likp, 
that," I said. "I'm in a hurry and I've got to hustle. 
I've got work to do." 

"Then you're lucky, and I'll bet you're not on 
space," he answered. 

"Well, I suppose I am lucky, for I've got a guar- 
antee, and I just earn that and nothing more. Some 
of the girls that only do space are in awful straits 
these war times, so I feel as if I were one of the elect 
to have a guarantee." 

"I should say so ! I used to make a hundred and 
fifty a week, just hopping about as a free-lance on 
space. This week I've made seven dollars. Last 
week I got three dollars and a half for a joke. My 
God! and you know I got married just before the 
'Maine' went down. I'd volunteer, but the little girl 
won't hear of it. Oh ! this war is hell on us !" 



234 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"All war is hell," I answered, hurrying into the 
office, leaving him standing at the door. What need 
for him to enter? Over it was the warning, "All 
hope abandon, ye who enter here without the wit to 
write of war!" 

There seemed to be nobody in particular to blame 
for this state of things, least of all the editors of the 
different departments of the different papers, who 
were mostly kind, big-hearted men, feeling sorry for 
the contributors who could not write of war, yet not 
daring to take anything that did not deal with it, 
because their readers wanted war, and war they must 
have. Only war itself was to blame for all the mis- 
eries brought in its train. 

Some of the joyousness and some of the tragedy 
of the newspaper office I have told here, for we of the 
press are glad and sorry, like unto the rest of the 
world, and, in respect of this, our lot is the common 
lot of all. Yet, sometimes it has seemed to me that 
women who live the newspaper life — because, per- 
haps, their experience is wider and broader and takes 
in more than does that of the average woman — 
are sometimes called upon to bear a little more 
heartache and show it less, than does that aver- 
age woman. I have heard some of these women 
described as "icicles," "heartless," knowing not 
what it means to suffer, caring only for their 
work, their ambition, becoming almost sexless. 
To the ranks of the women so described belonged a 
young woman journalist whom I once knew. I will 
tell her love story in the following chapter, and will 
call her "Miss Johnstone." 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 235 



CHAPTER XXI. 

THE LOVE STORY OF MISS JOHNSTONE, JOURNALIST. 

In the first corner, facing the entrance door of the 

city room, sat the city editor of the Daily 

Bugle, his desk piled high with telegrams, proof 
sheets and first editions of the rival papers. At the 
sides and in the middle of the room were arranged 
other desks, somewhat smaller and less important- 
looking, as became the subordinate positions of the 
men behind them. Long tables, besplashed with ink, 
and with blue pencils continually rolling from them 
to the floor, were surrounded by young men, turning 
out page after page of manuscript, and smoking their 
pipes the while. The office boys were running hither 
and thither, as the cry of "Copy !" "Copy !" rang out 
from different parts of the room, grabbing from the 
writers a page here and a page there, darting upstairs 
to the press room, then back again, with hands full 
of proof sheets, to be distributed over desks and tables. 

At the farthest corner from the door, where there 
was an attempt at separation from the rest of the 
room by a couple of Japanese screens, there were 
signs of femininity in the shape of a smart fur cape 
hanging on the wall beside a cheap little looking- 
glass, depending from a nail by a string. A nobby 
hat with a green velvet bow and a red feather, a spot- 



236 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

ted veil in a high heap, a pair of gloves and a silver- 
handled umbrella, had been thrown carelessly down 
upon the back part of the roll-top desk. 

"Miss Johnstone! The city editor wants you 
quick !" called out one of the small boys, stopping on 
his way to the press room, with his hands full of 
corrected proofs. 

"All right, Bobbie !" came the answer from behind 
the screens, and then the occupant of the exclusive 
corner could be seen as she rose from behind the high 
desk. She was what would be called a "tailor-made 
girl/ 7 of twenty-two or possibly twenty-five. The 
men in the office spoke of her as being "something on 
looks/ 7 meaning thereby that she was not unattrac- 
tive, that she carried herself well, and dressed in a 
style that they denominated "smooth/ 7 She was not 
tall, so she wore her hair done high to keep her from 
appearing too insignificant. She had a good figure, 
so she affected tailor-made gowns, which showed it 
off. She had not much color in her cheeks, therefore 
she wore a bright red necktie, knotted in the fashion- 
able mode, which appeared to give a ruddiness to 
her face. It was not exactly what could be called a 
sympathetic face. Once, it might have been, but 
now it was rather one that had been schooled to 
stolidity and concealment by a necessity which knew 
no sentimental law. Surely, not out of the abun- 
dance of the heart dared the mouth or the face of 
this woman speak! 

Her long green skirts, with their silky rustle, swept 
over the floor among the pieces of waste-paper, 
"flimsy 77 and broken lead pencils. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIKL" 237 

"Bobbie said you wanted me/' she said to the city 
editor, when she had reached his desk. 

"Oh, yes, I do !" he responded, without looking up. 
He was critically examining some pages of typewrit- 
ten copy, and drawing his blue pencil mercilessly 
through words, sentences, and sometimes whole pages 
of it. 

"Yes, I want you," he repeated, as the girl stood 
waiting. 

"Hello, Bobbie! Here, fire this upstairs, and tell 
them it's to go into the early edition," he called out, 
throwing the bundle of sheets into the outstretched 
hands of the boy who hurried towards him. Then 
the editor continued blue-penciling other pages, as 
he said, still without looking up from his work : — 

"It's not in your line, I know, but I've got to ask 
you to do a funeral, a lying-in-state, floral tributes, 
and so on. What with that murder over on the East 
Side and being head-over-ears in political work and 
that city corruption expose, I haven't a man I can 
spare for this thing. So, do your best with it, will 
you? And don't try to get anything humorous or 
even bright and catchy into your account of the 
affair, as you are wont to do in everything you 
handle, though, of course, I've never tried you on 
funerals." He added this half bantering, half kindly, 
as though to let the girl know he was not com- 
plaining. 

"John Black, the young politician, died suddenly 
last nigh|. He was one of our particular proteges, 
you might say, so we want to give the poor chap a 
good send-off, now he's gone. You know of him, of 



238 THE AUTOBIOGEAPHY 

course ? Sharp as a whip, but good as gold. Eising 
young fellow ! If he'd lived, he'd have been senator, 
governor and even president, or Fd have missed my 
guess. Just go to his mother's house this afternoon. 
Take a train. It's out in the suburbs and here's the 
address. About seven o'clock would be a good time, 
I should say. There ought to be plenty of floral 
tributes by that time. Get all the names, you under- 
stand, and then " 

"Yes, I understand exactly what you want," inter- 
rupted the young woman, as though in a hurry to 
conclude the interview, "and I have no idea that I 
shall see anything humorous in the situation. If I 
should happen to, I promise you I shall not put it 
into the paper." 

As she said this, she was leaving the editor's desk, 
when he resumed : — 

"Oh, say, Miss Johnstone, will you allow a mere 
man to make a suggestion to }^ou? Would you mind 
changing that flaring red necktie for something a 
little more somber, when you go to poor Black's house 
this afternoon ? I've always found it paid for women 
reporters, and men, too, for that matter, to bear in 
mind these little diplomacies. Look as quiet and 
unobtrusive as you can, when you go. You may run 
across his mother or some of his relations who will 
talk for publication." 

A slight nod, and a murmured "Very well !" was 
the answer. 

Once back at her desk, Miss Johnstone dived deep 
into her cape pocket for her purse, and emptied its 
contents in front of her. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 239 

"Eighty-seven cents," she said to herself, "and it's 
Thursday ! I've already drawn ten dollars on account 
of this week's salary, and I dare not ask for any more 
in advance. Money! money! How can I get it?" 

Suddenly she pulled out some copy paper and 
began to write. "This is the only way," she mur- 
mured; "a column for the Humorist and collect on 
delivery !" 

Page after page passed from under her pen. Then 
clipping a dozen sheets together, she read them over, 
made a correction here, an addition or an omission 
there, laughed grimly, as though pleased with her 
work, pushed back her chair and left the room. 

The Humorist was a weekly paper published by the 
>ame proprietor as the Daily Bugle, though, of 
course, under altogether different editorial manage- 
ment. A number of the regular members of the 
Bugle staff were among the contributors to the 
weekly periodical, and were paid for that work at 
space-rates, so that they were thus able to add mate- 
rially to their weekly salaries. Miss Johnstone was 
among the funny paper's most valued contributors, 
and often when work was slack in the city room of 
the Bugle, she occupied herself with turning out tales 
for the delectation of the Humorist's readers. A 
little private arrangement existed between her and 
the editor by which she was paid immediately on the 
delivery of her manuscript, and when she now en- 
tered his office with a parcel of paper in her hand, he 
exclaimed, "What! broke again? Well, let's read 
your stuff." 

Throughout the reading, the man smiled the 



240 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

pleased smile of the editor who finds himself in pos- 
session of a "scoop" that no hated rival has any 
means of obtaining. 

"It's great !" he exclaimed, when he had finished. 
"I like it better than any political caricature you've 
ever done for me. I declare/' he went on, with an 
insinuating grin on his face, "you must have a pull 
with some garrulous statesman, or you wouldn't be 
able to get hold of these stories." 

An order for ten dollars passed from the editor to 
Miss Johnstone, who, with a hurried "Thank you! 
You're a friend in need!" left the office. She had 
donned her hat and cape before leaving her desk, and 
when she had stopped at the cashier's office, the doors 
of the great building swung behind her, and she 
passed into the street, which was rapidly filling with 
men and women going to luncheon from the various 
offices. She was passed by numerous street cars, but 
neglected to hail them. As she walked rapidly along, 
her shoulders back, her head erect, a woman whis- 
pered to a companion in the crowd : "Look ! There 
goes that Miss Johnstone, of the Bugle. They say 
her salary's something immense. Of all the unsym- 
pathetic, cold-looking faces I ever saw, hers is the 
worst. I wouldn't be surprised to know that ice 
water and never a drop of blood ran in her veins." 

Miss Johnstone halted before a florist's window. 
"I want a wire frame — the kind they use for making 
wreaths," she said, when she entered the shop. 

"Now, some 'Jack roses.' Give me some buds as 
well as full-blown roses. No, I don't want any green, 
except the rose leaves. Eight dollars, did you say?" 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 241 

She passed over the ten-dollar bill, and taking the 
two dollars change and the parcels of flowers and 
wire, turned again into the street, then round a cor- 
ner, then into a lofty, red-brick building, made up of 
flats. 

It was a pretty, dainty, feminine-looking room 
into which the girl entered. Bright draperies, soft 
cushions, pictures on the walls, easy chairs, books and 
magazines, a small piano with specimens of the latest 
popular music scattered about it — all proclaimed the 
artistic, well-paid American professional woman. 
Flower vases filled with roses, such as the girl had 
just brought from the florist's, were on the tables 
and the mantel. 

The room was heated with pipes, after the Ameri- 
can fashion, but as she seated herself upon the velvet 
carpet, with the roses and the wire frame, she shiv- 
ered and sharply shut her teeth together to keep them 
from chattering. Then among the roses deftly flew 
her fingers, carrying them to the wire frame, one by 
one, till only a circlet of crimson loveliness lay finally 
in her lap. 

"Copy ! copy ! Proof sheet ! proof sheet !" rang out 
upon the smoky, midnight air of the Daily Bugle 
office. 

"Where's that headline I just wrote? Here, take 
it upstairs, and tell them it's to be used with Miss 
Johnstone's account of John Black's death, which 
she'll have ready to send up in a few minutes. What's 
that, Miss Johnstone? Oh! you've got the first five 
pages done already ? Good ! Here, then, Bobbie, 



242 THE AUTOBIOGBAPHY 

take the headline and this part of the stuff up to- 
gether, and say the rest will be done in ten minutes." 

Miss Johnstone bent over her desk, writing, her 
face white, but as immobile and incomprehensible as 
ever. 

"Miss Johnstone, the night editor wants to know if 
you brought back from the village a photograph of 
John Black? He thinks they'd better use a picture, 
even if you have to cut down the write-up to make 
room for it." One of the copy readers stood at her 
desk, speaking. 

"What did you say? Oh, a photograph? Yes, I 
did, or at least I think I brought it away with me. 
It was a little picture. Go away a minute, so I'll 
have room to move about and hunt for it among my 
papers." 

Miss Johnstone took out her purse, and with trem- 
bling fingers felt among the compartments, till she 
pulled forth a small photograph, evidently cut down 
to make it go into the purse. It was somewhat soiled, 
as though from much handling. 

"Here is the photograph," she said, handing it 
over to the copy reader. "I have written on the back 
that it's to be returned to me without fail, as I am 
responsible for it, and here is the rest of the copy, 
and I think my day's work is done." 

She got up slowly, donned her hat and cape, and 
as she left the desk, a large black Newfoundland dog 
crawled from under it and followed her from the 
room. 

"I never saw that dog before," said one of the men 
to the night editor, "but he went after her as though 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 243 

he'd belonged to her all his life. He looks like a 
knowing and valuable animal, and it's queer she 
never spoke of him, even as she went out." 

"Speak!" reiterated the night editor, throwing a 
bundle of "flimsy" on to the floor, "Miss Johnstone 
isn't one of the speaking kind ! She's been here four 
years and nobody but myself ever so much as knew 
she had a family to support." 

"You don't mean to say she's married ?" exclaimed 
the other editor, in surprise. 

"Married! Certainly not! She's got an invalid 
mother, a little brother, and a sister about seventeen 
who goes to boarding school, to support, besides her- 
self to keep. How the devil could a girl like that 
get married, if she wanted to?" 

"Well, her salary and all the extra she makes on 
the Humorist wouldn't be too much to do all that 
on," returned the other. "But what puzzles me is 
where that animal came from. How he got into the 
office !" 

"Oh, I can enlighten you that much," said the 
night editor. "I saw him come in with her when 
she came back to do her writing, and he went under 
the desk and waited till she got through. As they 
passed my desk, I said, 'Fine dog, that ! Is he yours ?' 
and she said, 'Certainly,' with such a fierce look in 
her eyes, that I didn't think I was expected to say 
anything more." 

While this conversation was going on, Miss John- 
stone was walking home to her flat, the black dog at 
her side. 

"Here, Comfort, we are home now," she said, as 



244 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

she turned into the lighted entrance to the flat- 
building, and the dog followed her in. 

A few years ago a visitor to the little village of 
which is a few miles out from the largest of 



our American cities, was looking through the beau- 
tiful little cemetery attached to the newly-painted 
wooden church. 

"Yes" said the old man who tended the graves and 
kept the grass cut, as he showed the visitor through, 
"it's as pretty a little cem'try as I ever see, and 
there's folks buried here as this town not only loved 
and respected, but as was more than common in in- 
tellec'. See that there grave over there with the red 
roses on it? They're ruther faded now, it bein' the 
last o' the week, but on a Sunday there'll be another 
one bright an' fresh. Oh, I could tell ye a tale o' 
them roses !" 

"What tale ?" asked the visitor, "and who is buried 
there?" 

"Well, ye see, we had a young townsman by the 
name o' Black — John Black, to speak by the book, — 
an' he war a great orator an' politician an' a member 
o' the state legislater. He was brought up amongst 
us, an' he was that anxious after larnin' that he 
sawed wood in the summer time to get money to pay 
fer schoolin' in the winter, an' he got through the 
State University that way an' supported his old 
mother into the bargain. He tuk to law an' then to 
politics, an' long afore he war thirty he'd made a 
stir, an' there warn't nobody what didn't believe he'd 
be sent to the Senate, an' after awhile git to be presi- 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 245 

dent jest as soon as he got old enough. Well, the 
campaign of 18 — , you remember what a tough thing 

that was over in , of course ? John Black tuk 

a great interest in that, an' he tuk off his coat an' 
went to work to defeat the other fellers, an' he made 
ten an' twelve speeches a day. He rushed first from 
one meetin' an' then to another, an' always with his 
big dog along with him, w'ich war a mighty in- 
telligent beast, an' used to set on the platform with 
Black an' bark fit to kill when his master got through 
an' the folks was a cheerin' him. He tuk great stock 
in that dog, did Black, an' called him by the name o' 
'Comfort.' Well, poor John Black, he fell down 
with a stroke of apoplexy an' died just as he was 
goin' to a meetin' of his party, an' that was a hard 
day for this village, an' he had such a funeral an' 
layin'-out as a governor might be proud of. 

"Flowers was sent from all over an' delegations 
from all the big towns came on, an' John Black was 
buried as befitted the great man he was and the great 
man he would ha' been. 

"0' course, there war lots o' reporters from the big 
papers sent down to write about the funeral, an' as 
we afterwards larned there war a young woman re- 
porter from the Daily Bugle, a paper that set great 
stock by John Black an' him by it, too, that went to 
the house an' made a particular request to go into 
the front room alone where the corpse was, as she 
said she could do her work better if she war alone an' 
she wanted to write down names and make a picture 
of all the flowers, or something. They let her do as 
she liked, an' besides the rest of the reporters hadn't 



246 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

begun to come yet, an' she was in the room something 
about three-quarters of an hour. Late that night 
they couldn't find the dog nowhere, though John 
Black's cousin, who let the young woman into the 
room, said the dog was under the trestle where the 
coffin was, when she went in, an' she couldn't get him 
to go out, an' his howlin' was that pitiful when they 
tried to drag him away, they hadn't the heart to do 
it. They found a wreath o' red roses pushed way 
down to the foot inside the coffin, an' they didn't 
know how it got there, an' some was for takin' it out, 
as red flowers wasn't suitable for the dead, but only 
white, but nobody seemed to dast take it out, an' 
John Black was buried with 'em on his feet the same 
as they was left. 

"Black's mother went out of her head an' died in 
a few days, an' after that the story got round, I don't 
know exactly how, that the young woman reporter 
from the Daily Bugle was Black's sweetheart, an' 
they was waitin' to get some more money afore they 
could get married, Black havin' his mother to sup- 
port, an' so they kep' the matter quiet. Some o' the 
villagers said they remembered seein' her an' John 
Black goin' ridin' in a sleigh in the winter-time, an' 
they always tuk the dog along, an' another man said 
he see Black an' the gal an' the dog eatin' dinner in 
a restaurant." 

"It was the young woman reporter that put the 
wreath in the coffin and took the dog, then?" asked 
the visitor. 

"Yes," returned the old grave-tender, "but the 
sorrowful thing to my mind is this: They say the 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIKL" 247 

young woman she seed Black at her office the very- 
afternoon before he died, an* she never knowed a 
thing about his death till her editor told her to go 
out and report a funeral, tellin' her John Black had 
died sudden like, an' the editor he didn't know neither 
that John Black was anything to the young woman, 
an' she was a quiet, close-mouthed sort o' woman, so 
she never so much as cried out when she heard it, an' 
she went an' made a wreath an' brought it with her, 
an' she wrote up the laying-out for her paper, jest 
the same as if her heart wasn't a breakin', an' never 
told nobody at the newspaper office a word about it. 
The dog, he knowed her, and followed her out o' the 
French winder that opened on to the piazzar, an' 
when Black's cousin went to see if the young woman 
war through with her writin' and drawing, her an' 
the dog war gone, as I said. 

"It's a couple o' years now an' more, but every 
Sunday the young woman comes out to the cem'try 
with a lot o' roses an' puts 'em on the grave, an' she 
brings the dog along of her, an' they sits by the 
grave a while, an' then goes away. The village florist 
he says the roses is what you call { Jack roses,' an' a 
kind John Black always bought plenty of every week 
when he was alive, an' carried 'em to the city with 
him. I s'pose he tuk 'em to the young woman. 

"I used to think the young woman had a hard face 
w'ich warn't exactly lovin' when I see her come on a 
Sundays, but once about ten o'clock at night I come 
through the graveyard as the short cut home, an' the 
moon was up an' I see her and the dog settin' by 
Black's grave. I watched awhile, an' she put her 



248 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

head down on the grave an' clawed at it with her 
fingers, an' then the dog he scratched an' whined, an' 
the young woman kep' a sayin', f Oh, Jack, Jack ! If 
it wasn't for the rest of 'em that I have to look after, 
I'd come to you with Comfort. But I must stay 
here, Jack, to take care of 'em all !' 

"They say as how she's got a sick mother an' other 
folks to support, an' when I see that an' heard her 
a crying so pitiful, I knowed how it war. It's what 
you'd call a sorrowful tale, this here, ain't it ?" 

And the old grave-tender went his way. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 249 



CHAPTER XXII. 

THE STORY OF A "FAILURE." 

"Remember ! Let no obstacle stand in your way. 
You are to move heaven and earth to get this infor- 
mation. Don't let anything like trouble, time, or 
expense be taken into consideration. If you need 
ten times the amount of money you have with you, 
telegraph for it. Put forth every effort, expend all 
your energy to make this thing succeed." 

"And if I should fail?" 

"Don't think of it. Don't use the word. You 
must not fail! I've picked you out for this delicate 
job because it has seemed to me you had in you all 
the qualities that were needed to bring the thing to 
pass. You've got diplomacy, tact, shrewdness, dis- 
cretion, and, above all, you are absolutely feminine, 
and you haven't got 'newspaper woman' and 'inter- 
viewer' placarded all over you. I want this informa- 
tion, and I believe the man I am sending you to is 
the only one who can or will give it, and I believe 
you are the only person who can get him to give it. 
Don't you dare to fail!" 

Thus was I sent one day to Washington to pene- 
trate into a secret of State, to get certain most valu- 
able information from a very eminent personage who 
resided at the nation's capital. It was at a time 



250 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

when the getting of money was a matter of very great 
importance to me, and I went upon the mission as a 
sort of "free lance" — that is, I was to be paid all 
expenses and have a handsome fee if I succeeded, 
which it was impressed upon me by the editor that 
I must do. If I failed — well, I would not get the 
fee, but I would be allowed what was known as "ex- 
penses." 

It was with a large amount of self-confidence that 
I set out upon that mission. The editor had declared 
that I had all the elements of success in my own 
person. Why, then, should I not succeed? Why 
should not the eminent personage give me the infor- 
mation I sought? Why should I not get hold of a 
State secret? I had heard that other women, in 
present days and in days gone by, under monarchical 
governments, had become possessed of valuable infor- 
mation concerning affairs of State. Now, what those 
hampered women under monarchical rule could ac- 
complish, should not I, an American woman, in free- 
and-easy Washington, with its ready access to gov- 
ernment buildings and government officials, do? 

I arrived in Washington, took residence at one of 
the best hotels, ordered whatever I wanted for com- 
fort and even luxury, without having to take expense 
into consideration, changed my traveling costume 
for one more smart and fashionable-looking, and took 
a cable car for Capitol Hill. I had learned that at 
the Capitol I would find the eminent personage. 

My card bore the name of a London paper, as well 
as that of the American paper in the interests of 
which I had gone on the mission, but I drew my 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 251 

pencil across the name of the London paper. It 
showed quite plainly, however, and the word "Lon- 
don" looked large and important. 

In one of the luxurious waiting-rooms of the Cap- 
itol I waited while a boy hunted up the great man 
with whom I desired speech. It took three-quarters 
of an hour to find him and another half -hour before 
he could come to me. 

When he finally came and I saw him, I experienced 
a feeling of pleasure that the man I had been sent 
to interview was a gentleman of more than ordinary 
refinement and culture, for I always hated coming 
into contact with vulgar, common politicians. 

This man, who approached me with my card in 
one hand and holding out the other, was the polished 
gentleman, with dignified yet pleasant face, of easy, 
yet irreproachable manner. He shook hands with me. 

"You've been in London, I see," he said, turning 
to my card. 

"Yes," I replied, "but, as you see, I have not come 
from the London paper to you, but from the " 

He took one of the upholstered chairs near me. 
"Of course, you want to interview me, and I have no 
notion for being interviewed," he said, "but first, 
before we come to that, I can't help telling you that 
your name and face are very familiar to me. I seem 
to know you, and, now, where did I know you?" 

"It must have been in the other world, during our 
previous existence !" I laughed. "Perhaps we were 
great friends in that other existence. Brothers, I 
shouldn't wonder, for in the other existence I'm sure 



252 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

I was a man, and in punishment for some crime was 
condemned to be a woman in this." 

"No, that's not it!" exclaimed he, laughing, "be- 
cause, you see, I don't remember you as a man at all. 
Oh, I think I know now! Did you not some years 
ago get an appointment to go to Peru as private sec- 
retary to the American minister?" 

"Yes," I replied. 

"I remember now," he went on. "You were in 
Washington just before you left your country. You 
were doing the Capitol, and somebody pointed you 
out to me and said, 'There's the little girl that's 
going to be a diplomat.' I had heard about you, of 
course, for it was so extraordinary for a young 
woman to get a place in any of our legations, or any 
other legation, for that matter. I was curious to 
see what sort of person was going to start us in for 
female diplomacy. I particularly noticed you, and 
the whole thing struck me as ludicrous. You seemed 
very young, very ignorant and innocent-looking, and 
very bright and happy-looking, too. I vaguely won- 
dered what was going to become of you, whether you 
would ever come back to your own country again, and 
whether you would become a woman with a career. 
How did you make out as a diplomat ? Did you pene- 
trate into State secrets, learn all about Peruvian 
affairs, and serve your country well and nobly?" 

He sat back in his chair and laughed softly, and 
I laughed, too, but I felt more sad than gay, because 
this man's remembrance of me brought back to me 
the memory of something of happiness, and igno- 
rance, and youth, which I knew I had left behind me, 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 253 

and then I liked not his reference to "State secrets." 
It annoyed me, because for the moment I had for- 
gotten why I had come to Washington. However, 
for a few minutes we talked over Peru. I told him, 
much to his amusement, about the earthquake and 
the fleas, and we chatted about indifferent subjects, 
till he said — 

"But you have come to interview me, and I haven't 
another minute to spare now till dinner-time. Since 
we are such old friends suppose we dine together this 
evening, and, while dining, we will get down to the 
business of interviewing, which, if not nearly so 
pleasant to me as chatting about England and Peru, 
will be, I suppose, more profitable to you. Now, 
what do you say to seven o'clock at the Res- 
taurant? Till then, good-bye." 

This easy meeting, easy approach, and this getting 
upon a footing of such pleasant acquaintanceship, 
not to say friendship, was something I had not 
counted upon. It was, I knew, a very advantageous 
beginning, one that my editor would look upon as a 
great piece of luck. I felt assured of success, as I 
walked all the way back to my hotel, walked because 
I wanted to think out the whole interview carefully, 
and lay all my plans for getting the "scoop" that 
was to delight the editor, astonish the public, not 
only in my own country, but in other countries, and 
bring me in a goodly sum of money. 

That evening, as I sat opposite the statesman at 
dinner, our conversation took in many subjects. He 
was widely traveled, and talked most entertainingly 
and instructively of all that he had seen. He was 



254 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

interested in certain English affairs which I, because 
of my late residence in London, could give him in- 
formation upon. He knew all the embassies and 
legations of foreign countries, and talked familiarly 
of the different diplomats accredited to Washington. 
I asked an occasional question, and suddenly the in- 
formation I wanted came to me in the most natural, 
informal way in the world. Not only that! I was 
told far more than any editor could dare to hope any 
reporter would discover, and I learned things I had 
not tried to learn, but valuable things, from the news- 
paper point of view, nevertheless. Both this man 
and I were interested in the great subject of peace — 
peace, not only in our own country, but in all the 
countries of the world. We talked of the necessity 
for an international court of arbitration; we depre- 
cated the cruelty that war brought about, the hard- 
ness of heart, the deadening of sympathy for human 
and animal suffering; we shuddered at the thought 
of horses left wounded and dying in slow agony, un- 
tended and lonely on the battlefields. 

"I am glad to find that our opinions are in perfect 
accord upon this subject," he said. "For the present 
I am obliged to keep quiet upon certain matters of 
my belief. It is policy for me to do so. I would not 
have talked to you as I have done, if you had been 
the ordinary newspaper woman. One cannot speak 
frankly to many representatives of the Press. Now, 
you are a woman of discretion, and I expect you, in 
writing up your interview with me, to use your own 
judgment, and, of course, your judgment will tell 
you what must not go into the paper." 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 255 

He walked with me back to my hotel. 

"Good night," he said. "Good luck to you, and be 
careful with your interview. I wouldn't have trusted 
that innocent little girl that went to Peru as a diplo- 
mat with some of the information I have given to 
you to-night. I am inclined to think you are more 
of a diplomat now than you were in those days." 

He laughed again, half sadly. "Remember," he 
said, "you and I might be the cause of somewhat dis- 
turbing peace, if we talked too much. Good night 
again." 

He was gone, and I took the elevator to my rooms. 
I turned on all the electric lights and made the place 
a brilliant blaze. I put my hand dazedly to my head, 
I looked blankly at the great pads of copy paper sup- 
plied by the telegraph office for newspaper corre- 
spondents. There was a knock at my door. 

"Come in," I said. 

"Telegram," said the boy, thrusting a silver tray 
out towards me. 

"Any answer?" he asked, as I read the message. 
Now, the message was this : — 

"Any news yet? Urge every effort " 

"Yes, there's an answer," I said to the boy, and on 
a telegraph form I wrote one word, "Wait !" and 
handed it to him to dispatch to the paper from which 
the telegram had come. It gained me time, that 
was all. 

Then up and down the room, up and down for 
over two hours I walked, fighting such a battle with 
myself as I had never before been given to fight. 
I knew that not one single word of what the great 



256 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

man had said to me ought to be put in print. It 
might do harm — harm to him, harm to the country, 
harm to another country, harm, perhaps, to a cause 
in which we both were interested, the cause of peace. 

"I must not write it ! I must not write it I" I said 
again and again as I continued my journey up and 
down the room. "I will not let journalistic instinct 
get the better of my discretion, my honor, my judg- 
ment." 

But there was another side to the question. There 
was a duty one owed to one's paper, to one's editor. 
To be sent after a thing, to get it, then to refuse to 
deliver it up, was not that a sort of theft on my part, 
a dishonorable act, a trifling with the best interests 
of my paper and my own best interests as well ? Why 
did not great men keep silence if they did not wish 
their remarks, their fears, their hopes, their aims to 
get into the papers? Why had not this man refused 
to talk with me? Ah! "You and I might be the 
cause of disturbing peace if we talked too much." 
That was what he had said. Then why had he talked 
to me, a reporter? But had he said the more impor- 
tant things to a reporter? Had he not rather talked 
to the woman who was in accord with his sympa- 
thies, his views, his aims? When a woman was a 
newspaper reporter, where was the dividing line be- 
tween herself as woman and as reporter ? Should she 
govern her womanhood and her honor by her jour- 
nalistic instinct, or should she govern that jour- 
nalistic instinct by that honor and that womanhood? 
Honor? Yes. But what about the duty she owed 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 257 

to her employers? What about withholding that 
which they would consider theirs by right? And 
there was the money I was to receive ! I am glad to 
remember that when at first I began to fight that 
battle I did not take the large fee I was to have into 
consideration. Not until I had nearly decided what 
to do, did this phase of the matter occur to me. I 
needed that money. I had earned it. No, I had not 
earned it. I had not worked hard to obtain it. The 
success of my mission was due to an accident. The 
man had first become interested because he saw by 
my card that I was from London; then he remem- 
bered having seen me in what now seemed to me that 
long ago time when I was a nine-days' wonder, going 
away to a far country as a member of the American 
Legation. He had not cared anything about the 
paper I represented. He had talked to me 'person- 
ally. We both desired peace, therefore he did not 
expect me to write anything that might help to bring 
about war. 

I went to the telegraph forms, tore off one, and 
wrote : — 

"Absolutely impossible. Refuses even to see me. 
Useless to try.— E. B." 

It was past midnight, but I was known to be a 
newspaper woman, and there was nothing surprising 
in the fact of my ringing the bell and asking the boy 
to send this telegraphic message at once. He started 
down the hall with it. I stepped out, and as I saw 
him disappearing, I called after him "Wait a min- 
ute!" He turned back to come to me, and I said, 
"No ! Go on ! Nothing ! Send it off instantly ! Don't 



258 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

let anything delay yon ! Get away with it ! Get away 
with itr 

I went back to my room. Two minntes had gone. 
I rang the bell. The boy was delayed in answering. 

"That telegram I gave yon ! Quick ! Has it been 
sent? Can't yon get it back?" I asked. 

"No. It's just gone. I saw the telegraph operator 
tick it off." 

"All right. It doesn't make any difference," I 
said. 

But it did make a difference. What difference I 
knew not, but I have sometimes since thought it 
might have made a very important difference, that 
perhaps it was given unto me at that time to influ- 
ence certain events which quickly followed. At the 
instant when I called the boy back I would have re- 
called the telegram. When I rang the bell, again I 
would have recalled it, but I could not, for it was on 
its way to the editor of the paper. 

When it was fairly gone I knew I was safe. I had 
lied, saying I could not see the man, and I did not 
intend to confess myself a liar. I laughed over the 
way I had caught myself in my own snare. I had 
told a good lie, and I was going to stick to it. I 
argued that if all was, as they said, fair in love and 
war, I had a right to my belief that some things also 
were fair in peace. There was lying in war. Indeed, 
it was often brought about by lies. Why, then, 
should not I add my little mite in the way of a lie 
for the sake of Peace? 

Very early the next morning I wrote a note to the 
man I had interviewed: "After leaving you, I de- 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 259 

cided it was not best to send anything of our conver- 
sation to the paper. You told me to use my own 
judgment and discretion, and they have warned me 
that much harm may be done by the repetition of 
any of the important statements you made. I have 
telegraphed to the paper that you absolutely refused 
to see me, because if I said I saw you, I would be 
required to explain how I had been so stupid as not 
to make you talk, and I cannot bear to be thought 
stupid. I am sure that if it should ever become 
necessary for you to bear me out in my statement 
that I 'know not the man/ you will do so by insisting 
that you know not this woman, because for me to be 
caught in a lie would be almost as embarrassing as 
for me to be thought stupid." 

I sent this note by special messenger, and took the 
first train out of Washington. 

"You mean to say that you — you, with all your 
heralded originality of resource — couldn't so much 
as get a look at that man ?" asked the editor, when I 
had returned from my trip. 

"Yes, I mean to say it. I never failed to see any- 
one before but Gladstone, so don't be too hard on me. 
You said if I couldn't get him, nobody could." 

"I don't know when I swore so hard as I did last 
night when your telegram came saying you had 
failed. I felt so sure you would succeed when I got 
your first telegram of 'Wait !' that I had my headlines 
ready. What did you say 'wait' for?" 

"Oh, that was before I entirely gave it up. I was 
trying to see what I could do." 

"Well, I'm sorry for your sake as well as ours. It 



260 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

would have been worth a pretty sum. But make out 
your expense account, so I can send it in, and Fll 
add ten dollars for your trouble; that's the best I 
can do." 

"I shall pay my own expenses, and I don't want 
the ten dollars. I got nothing ; you owe me nothing." 

"Oh, say, that's nonsense ! We always pay the 
expenses and time rates when you go off on a job 
like that. Don't you go to doing anything of that 
sort, and establishing a dangerous precedent for the 
other poor devils that fail. Your expenses must have 
been twenty dollars, weren't they? Make them out, 
now." 

But I did not make out any bill of expenses, and I 
took no time rates on that occasion of failure. The 
lie I had told rested easy upon my conscience. I did 
not regret it; I never shall. But I had, in a way, 
cheated that paper out of something, and I was not 
going to make it pay for the privilege of being cheat- 
ed, and I lost thirty dollars by that "failure." 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 261 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

SOME PROPOSALS AND SOME LOVE-LETTERS. 

"My Dear Young Lady — I am reading all your 
letters to the paper telling how you try to live on 
three dollars a week. Sometimes I dream about your 
being cold and hungry. You do not say where you 
are employed at that price, and I suppose you dare 
not for fear you will lose your place. You must 
have suffered very much before you was willing to 
write to the paper all about it and tell what you have 
to eat, and how you have to cook it to make it last. 
It makes me feel bad that an American woman 
should have to do that. I hope you will not think 
I am impudent, but I wish we could keep company 
together, and if we liked each other as I think we 
would we could get married, and you would have a 
nice home. I have looked at your picture in the 
paper and was very sorry you should have let them 
put it in. I cannot tell much how you look, and I 
would like you to get a tin-type taken if you could 
afford it, but I know you cannot, and so I would like 
to come and see you. Tell me how you look, and if 
you are light or dark, and how old you are. I am 
thirty and I make three dollars every day at carpen- 
try and sometimes as high as three dollars and a half, 
so you see I have plenty of money to support a wife, 



262 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

besides having four hundred dollars in the Dime 
Savings Bank. Will you let me know when I can 
come to see you, and give me the address, or maybe 
you would like to meet me at my sister's, who lives 
in New York. I have to send this to you care of the 
paper, and I hope they will send it to you. 
"Your sincere friend and admirer, 

"J. T " 

This was one of the many hundreds of letters of 
all kinds that came to me while I was engaged on a 
series of articles in New York entitled "How I Live 
on Three Dollars a Week." I have already men- 
tioned this experiment in a former chapter. I was 
making the experiment with the idea of telling New 
York's working girls how to live as economically as 
possible, and to discover whether or not a working 
woman could live, without suffering and privation, 
on those wages. Before the series began, an expla- 
nation of who I was, what I had done in England, 
and why I now proposed to do this thing in New 
York was published in the paper. This issue of the 
paper, I fancy, did not fall into the hands of the 
writer of the above letter. He probably began read- 
ing the opening chapter in which I stated that I had 
three dollars a week, and proposed to tell people how 
I lived upon it. Then, from day to day, there ap- 
peared installments of my story from real life, telling 
what I had for breakfast, for dinner, for supper, how 
my room was furnished, how I cooked my food over 
my little oil-stove, and every day an artist or photog- 
rapher from the paper was sent to the room to make 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIKL" 263 

pictures of me and it as we progressed. One picture 
represented me peeling potatoes, another sweeping 
up my tiny room, another grouped my cooking uten- 
sils together, most of which I had bought at a "five 
cent store." The series was an interesting and a 
very successful one, and for doing it I received lib- 
eral space rates, so that I counted some of the priva- 
tions I suffered as of small account. 
1 Not so the young man who wrote to me from 
Brooklyn and signed his full name. As I have said, 
he had not read the introduction to the series, and 
he did not understand that a woman journalist was 
making the experiment. He understood that the 
writer of the sometimes bright, sometimes pathetic 
tale was really a girl who had only three dollars a 
week to live on, and that she was writing to the 
papers about it, in order, perhaps, to gain the sym- 
pathy of the public, and, by telling of her own 
troubles, to help others to bear theirs. And the 
pathos of it all had touched his great big heart. He 
had dreamed of me, dreamed that I was cold and 
hungry, and determined, if agreeable to me, and if, 
after going through that period of courtship known 
in England as "walking out," and in America as 
"keeping company," we loved each other, to marry 
me. 

Many another woman journalist would have hunt- 
ed the man up, posing as the unhappy, ill-paid work- 
ing girl he imagined her to be, and, perhaps, have 
got material for another series far more interesting 
and strikingly sensational than the one that was then 
appearing. But to me there was something sweet 



264 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

and beautiful and noble in the letter, and I could not 
use the writer as the subject for a joke. I answered 
the letter, to be sure. I thought it well that his mind 
should be eased, that he should not worry over the 
trouble of an imaginary person, so when the series 
was finished I wrote to him that my letters to the 
paper had helped me to get a nice position, where I 
had ten dollars a week out West, and that I was 
going out there to live with an aunt. 

This letter was very similar to one I received in 
London, just before I began publishing my experi- 
ence as a housemaid. It was published at the time, 
but I here repeat it to show that kind and sympa- 
thetic hearts are to be found among the young me- 
chanics of England, as well as those of America. 

It came in answer to the advertisement I inserted 
in the Daily Telegraph, for a situation as housemaid, 
and it ran as follows : — 

"Dear Miss — Seeing your advertisement, I am 
moved to write and say that I admire your pluck and 
am glad to know there is at least one young woman 
with sense enough to see that there is no disgrace in 
domestic labor. I would like to marry a girl like 
you, if you are not too old, or ugly, which I do not 
believe you are. Please state age, complexion, 
height, temperament, and personal appearance, and 
tell me if you would accept for a husband an honest 
mechanic, aged 28, and earning £200 a year. If so, 
give me your address and I will come and see you 
with all honorable intentions. It is much better for 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 265 

a girl like you to be married and have a protector, 
than to be a housemaid." 

But these proposals, like some I got during my 
masquerade as an American heiress, when, had I 
possessed the bank account I was imagined to have, 
there was no reason why I should not have become 
"my lady" several times over, were gained under 
what may be called "false pretenses." The young 
English mechanic desired to marry a housemaid; the 
young American aspired to the hand of a factory girl 
who was starving and freezing on three dollars a 
week, and the Englishmen of noble lineage paid their 
courtly devotions to a supposed Miss Moneybags, who 
had dollars to burn. I take no credit to myself on 
account of them. They were not intended for me, 
but for the person I misrepresented myself to be. 

It was to myself, in my own proper person in my 
humble capacity as journalist, that the following 
highly inflammatory and amorous epistle was ad- 
dressed. I found it on my desk one morning when 
I was a "yellow journalist" in New York: — 

"Adored Mademoiselle — I read always what you 
write in the papers with vivacity, and I watch 3 r ou 
sometimes when you go from the door, and see that 
you are chic. I follow you in the cable-car when you 
do not know, and I walk before your home, up and 
down, up and down, on the sidewalk. I know you 
not, but I would your friendship be glad to make, 
when I would love you and have the felicity to hold 
you in my arms. I am in a strange country, and 



266 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

like not the New York women — only yon. I read 
the paper always, and watch for your name ; but you 
have not traveled enough, and I would take you to 
my dear France. I am a gentleman and noble, as 
you see by the card. I have been in diplomatics, but 
not now. My name you may have heard, for we are 
very proud. I do implore you, mademoiselle, to let 
me pay my respects at your residence and tell my 
adoration. Adieu ! 

"Most respectfully, 



According to the card inclosed my admirer was 
"le Comte," and had at one time served his country 
as*a diplomat. I did not answer the letter, and two 
days later there came another love-lorn epistle, along 
with a huge bouquet. "I send you the roses," it ran. 
"They are La France and American Beauty. Will 
you not wear them, and let me know that you return 
my devotion? I will marry with you and take you 
to France, and you shall be la belle American. I 
had no thought to insult you, which you may think; 
I love you for the vivacity." 

The roses adorned my desk for many a day, but 
I wrote not to my would-be wooer until my life be- 
came a burden, for a dapper little dark-eyed, mus- 
tachioed Frenchman haunted my footsteps, and 
jumped on to cable and elevated cars after me, on 
one occasion losing his balance at the Park Place 
station, and being pushed back violently by the iron 
gate as it swung to. I knew, of course, that the man 
who followed me so persistently must be the writer of 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 267 

the letters and the donor of the beautiful flowers, but 
whenever I saw him I tried to appear as though I did 
not know it, and put on as unconcerned an air as 
possible. Once I met him on Fifth avenue, and he 
doffed his hat and said, "Ah, mademoiselle, you are 
too cruel!" and I rushed up a flight of brown stone 
steps and rang the bell violently, inquiring for some- 
one I knew did not reside there, to get rid of him. 
But the next day a letter, more violently lover-like 
than ever, came to me, all scented with heliotrope, 
and along with it a box of bonbons. I was heartless 
enough to eat them up, and then I wrote presenting 
my compliments, and expressing thanks for the honor 
he doubtless desired to do me, but begging him to 
cease his attentions, as my heart was otherwise en- 
gaged. In reply to this there came a passionately- 
protesting letter, to which I replied that any further 
letters he wrote me would be turned over to my editor 
for insertion in the paper. I never saw nor heard 
from "le Comte" again! 

I once went to interview a large landowner and 
wealthy cattleman from the far West. I wanted his 
opinion on the subject of girls being employed to 
herd cattle in the West. A very interesting and 
unique American was this man. He was possibly 
forty, tall, athletic, tanned brown by the sun. There 
was no pretence of polish about him, and his speech 
showed him to be a man of little book learning. He 
had been a cowboy in his youth, and now he was 
worth an immense fortune. I had never lived so far 
West as the state from which he came, and I had 
never met this manner of man before. He was blunt, 



268 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

bluff, brusque, yet underneath it all there seemed a 
kindness and respect for women which could not but 
put me at my ease. 

"Say!" he exclaimed, stretching out his long legs 
from his chair and pushing back his large, broad- 
brimmed hat from his face, "do you know I like you, 
and I've got a notion that you and I ought to be 
hitched?" 

"What !" I exclaimed in amazement. 

"See here ! Do you like money ? I mean do you 
like to spend it on flummeries and silks and sech 
like?" 

"I certainly do," I answered frankly, "but what 
of it?" 

"I thought so. Now, you listen to me, and don't 
you interrupt or get scared, fur I've got no idee about 
you but what's just right. I've been living out West 
all my life, grubbing away for 'the stuff,' and I 
haven't had time to think about fallin' in love, and, 
of course, you needn't think I'm goin' to make love 
to you, for I've just met you. But I want to make 
an honorable, business proposition to you. I'm not 
a gentleman — that is, on the outside, because I 
haven't had time to learn when to bow and scrape 
and take off my hat and when not to, and don't get 
round quick enough to pick up a woman's handker- 
cher when she drops it, and things of that sort. 
You're educated, and I'm not. I didn't have no 
chance when I was a kid, and, as I said, I've been 
grubbing ever since. I always thought I'd like to 
have money, and now I've got it. If it ain't a mil- 
lion, it's so near it there ain't any use calculatin' how 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 269 

much less it is. Now, I took a notion to yon because 
you set about your work, quiet-like to interview me, 
and I says to myself 'Here's a hard-workin' girl. 
She'd make money fly if she had it, and wear satin 
dresses with ruffles and flutings every day, if she 
could afford it. She'd appreciate playing a pianny 
and she'd know how to help a fellow improve and 
make something of himself. She'd know an honest 
man when she laid eyes on him even if he wasn't 
a dude/ 

"My proposition to you is this: Will you marry 
me, and if we fall in love afterwards, all right, and 
if we don't, we'll be good friends, anyway. I'll treat 
you on the square. I'm no fool, and I learn things 
quick enough when I set my mind to it. You could 
teach me, and I'd be a good scholar. I'm a young 
man yet. I want to rub myself up now, stop the 
money-grubbing and be a Congressman. Oh, I'd get 
there right enough, if you'd help me. I wouldn't 
expect you to live on the ranch, not more'n three 
months in a year, anyway. We'd travel around the 
country and go see furrin parts. You wouldn't have 
to do any more work, but just have a good time. 
I'd be good to you, I would, little woman. What do 
you say to it?" 

I caught my breath. I had had many a strange 
encounter with men in my career as an interviewer. 
I had thought I had met all kinds and varieties, and 
that my experience was wide enough to take in every 
sort. I had met honest men, dishonest ones, gentle- 
men, boors, men who openly insulted me, men who 
tried to cover up their insults in the polished phrases 



270 THE AUTOBIOGEAPHY 

of the courtier. Here was a new sort, a man pathetic 
in his honesty, yet grand and noble of character, the 
kind of man one would fancy God might make when 
he put forth every effort to do His best. I shrank 
from hurting his feelings. I wanted to let him know 
that I felt he had honored me, that I did not see 
anything ridiculous in the situation, that I would not 
go away and laugh about it 

"I thank you more than I can tell you," I said. 
"You have done me an honor I shall never forget. 
Don't ever say again you are not a gentleman. You 
are. Good-bye." 

I put out my hand. "I suppose it's no go, then?" 
he asked. 

I smiled. "I believe that would be the short way 
of expressing it," I said. 

"Well, I'm glad I spoke to you about it, anyway. 
I couldn't know until I mentioned it, could I ? Say, 
if you ever come out my way, you just send me a line, 
and if I'm there, I'll see you don't want for nothing. 
But I'm goin' traveling, I am. You may hear of me 
in Congress, or governor, or something yet. You 
wouldn't be sorry then?" 

"No," I answered, "I wouldn't be sorry then." 

I left him standing on the rug. A kitten had come 
into the room while he was talking, and he had 
stooped and picked it up, allowing it to play with his 
watch chain. 

One of Nature's noblemen in the rough, I thought 
him. 



OF A " NEWSPAPER GIRL" 271 



CHAPTER XXIV. 



It is four years ago now since back again to Lon- 
don I came, having finished up my work as "yellow 
journalist." I have already told what "good fellows" 
were those members of the different staffs upon which 
I was employed, helping me over the rough places, 
and making easy many a road that would otherwise 
have been hard to travel. They were "good fellows" 
to the end, up to the hour of my sailing away from 
my native land. Loud and severe indeed were their 
comments of disapproval upon what they denomi- 
nated my determination to be a "regular, right-down 
Johnnie Bull," and when I was about to take my 
farewell of the office where I was last employed, they 
sang out sonorously and in unison a paraphrase of 
dear old Dinah's "Dixie Song" : — 

"Her heart's turned back to Lunnon, 
And she must go." 

Nevertheless, to show their good will, and to pre- 
vent my forgetting them, as they declared I would 
surely do, "writing for dry, high-toned English 
papers," they took up a collection of various knick- 
knacks among themselves, which one of their number 
brought to the steamer just as it was about to sail. 



272 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Each member of the staff had contributed something 
from his own personal effects at the office to such a 
"farewell testimonial for remembrance" as I fancy no 
other woman ever brought with her to London. 

One contributed" his pen, one his brand-new pipe, 
one a band from his straw hat, one a necktie, one his 
pencil, one a half-used blotting-pad. There was a 
Japanese doll, known as the "office baby," an alma- 
nac, a paste-pot and brush, snatched up from one of 
the reportorial tables in all its state of much-used 
stickiness, a jack-knife, a pair of scissors, a ball of 
twine, a box of pins, a box of cigarettes, an empty 
ink-bottle that was far from clear and clean, a flash- 
light photograph of several members of the staff 
taken in their shirt-sleeves, a French novel, a box of 
candies, one orange, and a bouquet of flowers. These 
things were piled in great confusion on to the sofa in 
my state room, and on the top of the miscellaneous 
heap was a wire spindle, stuck through a paper, on 
which was written, "You'll miss us when you're 
gone." 

Miss them! Certainly. Good friends they were. 
And'yet, not to a "foreign" land, nor to strangers did 
I return when I came back to London to work for 
English editors upon English newspapers and maga- 
zines. I have sung the praises of my American 
editors and journalistic co-workers, and shall I not 
now sing those of the English members of the Fourth 
Estate with whom my work has brought me into 
contact? Most conscientiously and most truly let 
now this chapter tell of the virtues of London editors 
I have known and still do know. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 273 

I keep always upon my desk what I call "My Edi- 
torial Bouquet." It is a book containing the names 
of those English editors that I love best. On the 
pages devoted to each individual name I jot down 
notes of subjects for contributions that I have in 
mind to offer them. I turn over those pages now, as 
I write this chapter. 

Ah! here among the first I find the name of him 
whom I have named my "hard-up editor." By this I 
do not mean that the gentleman in question, himself, 
is "hard-up," for such is not the case. I mean that 
he has a predilection for stories of hard-up-ed-ness. 
Whenever I am particularly "hard-up" I write a 
story about it and send it to this editor, and he 
always sends a check back by return of post. He 
says that he depends upon me to keep him supplied 
with articles and stories of this description, and I 
have always been able to let him have as many as he 
could use. Only once during my several years' con- 
nection with his periodical has he been under the 
necessity of writing to ask me for a contribution. 
That was when I was writing a book — which book 
does not matter. I had not sent him any story for 
the space of two months, when there came a short 
note from him, saying, "I have not had anything 
from you for some time now. I take it you are very 
prosperous these days." 

I immediately responded with a story of "A Man 
in Possession/' for which I received the next day a 
check with this injunction, "Get him out." 

I turn over a page or two and come to the name of 
one eminent, venerable, highly-honored and widely- 



274 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

renowned editor for whose pages I sometimes con- 
tribute. I went to his office one foggy, winter day to 
consult him upon a most important subject. I have 
said the day was foggy, but it was not an ordinary fog 
of the half-light, half-dark variety. It was abso- 
lutely thick and absolutely black. I fell over myself 
several times stumbling up the stairs to the great 
man's office. When I walked in, the fog had in no 
way dispersed, yet when he rose from the leader he 
was writing, to shake hands with me, he exclaimed — 

"Ah, the sun has come out \" 

And yet they say that Englishmen are lacking in 
gallantry, and the art of saying pretty things to 
women ! 

A few more pages, and I see the name of a smart 
young editor, whose acceptances from me are many, 
and whose checks are liberal. He would be such a 
perfect editor were it not for one habit — that of 
marking up the manuscripts of rejected articles in 
such a way that I have to write them all over again 
before submitting them to any other editor. The 
first article of mine that he rejected he kept for sev- 
eral weeks, finally returning it to me with this note : 
"You cannot feel as much regret as I do at my 
finally having to return this article. I like it better 
than anything of yours I have read, and I tried to 
make up my mind to use it, but I know it is not in 
our line, and now, therefore, I am obliged against my 
will to send it back. I assure you I did intend to 
use it up to the last minute." 

Intend to use it ! I should say so ! Why, the ap- 
preciative man had it all paragraphed, newly punc- 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 275 

tuated, and marked with a blue pencil with such 
observations as "Excellent !" "A little tall !" "Doesn't 
have the ring of truth here !" "Write her about this." 
"Not so good!" "Might be improved!" "That's it!" 

Now, it happened I did not see any of these 
pertinent, blue-penciled remarks until my attention 
was called to them by another editor who helps to 
make up my editorial bouquet, and to whom I sent 
the article off, post-haste, when it had been returned 
by the first editor. The second editor wrote me to 
come and see him, and then held that queer-looking 
manuscript before my eyes. 

"Now," said he, "I don't agree with the remarks 
you have been to the trouble of putting on this manu- 
script. In the first place, I don't call that particular 
paragraph 'excellent,' nor do I think that there is 
anything 'tall' in this statement. Where you have 
written 'might be improved' I" find your construction 
altogether blameless, and I rather like the whole 
article. But now tell the truth about this manu- 
script. What does it mean?" 

I saw a twinkle of large suspicion in the second 
editor's eye, and so, without any hedging, I said — 

"I expect it means it went to another editor before 
it came to you, and the other editor intended to use 
it and changed his mind. But I didn't know the 
marks were on it. The first page was quite clean, 
and as I thought it was just in your line, I sent it 
as soon as it was returned." 

The second editor accepted and published the ar- 
ticle. If he had not, he would not have been brought 
into my editorial bouquet. But that does not make 



276 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

the offense of the first editor any the less serious. 
He has rejected three of my articles after marking 
them up in the same manner, and I have had to copy 
them over, as I have informed him. I now make 
duplicate copies of everything submitted to that par- 
ticular editor. 

Again to the book of names I turn, and I see the 
name of an editor who is always asking me to "try 
a little fiction" for him. He says he believes I would 
succeed with fiction, although I have never yet got 
out of the habit of writing only of things that really 
happened. For several years this editor has been 
urging me to "make up things" for his paper, and I 
have never yet done so, though I am a frequent con- 
tributor to his pages. 

Now, I have mentioned that in the earlier part 
of my career in London I purchased a typewriter on 
the installment plan. Well, as the months went by, 
I managed with much economy and trouble to get 
the succeeding installments paid till I got to the last 
one, and for that installment, which was to make the 
machine my very own, I could not get the money. 
The people from whom I bought it waited most con- 
siderately for some time after the payment was due, 
but finally they sent a man to take it away. That 
was in the days of Dinah and the flat. The man 
was a very nice sort of person and truly sympathized 
with me, I think, when I told him I could not make 
my living if he took the typewriter away. Never- 
theless he declared he must obey orders. 

"It is now," I said, "twelve o'clock. Will you go 
away and let me use the typewriter till six o'clock, or 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 277 

even five? I promise you that you shall then have 
the machine or the money." 

"Certainly!" he answered, and he left the flat. 
I sat down and rattled off a story of a young woman 
who bought a typewriter on the installment plan. 
She earned her living by doing work for the news- 
papers. She could not pay the last installment, there- 
fore she wrote a story about her troubles, and took 
the story to an editor, and he paid her for it on the 
spot, and so she saved her typewriter. 

I had my story finished at two o'clock, and I car- 
ried it to the editor who is always asking me to "try 
fiction." He was very busy, but I insisted that the 
story was of a kind that must be read on the spot. 
He read it. 

"That is a capital story!" he exclaimed when he 
had finished. "I always knew you could do fiction. 
I'll send you a check next week for it." 

"But that will be too late," I said. "The type- 
writer will be gone then." 

"What typewriter?" he asked surprisedly. 

"Why, the typewriter that the story tells about. 
The man's waiting for the money, and if I don't carry 
it back to him he'll take the machine." 

The editor sank back in his chair, gave me one 
stare, and then laughed long and heartily. "I don't 
know if I'd advise you to try fiction, after all," he 
said, and then he took his pen and wrote a check, 
and I went back and paid off the final installment on 
the typewriter. 

Another editor on my list is one I call my "serious 
editor." He is a very busy man and always in deadly 



278 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

earnest. I went to his office shortly after my return 
from America. 

"Where have you been all this time?" he asked, 
"and what are yon going to do for me now? Some 
really good work you ought to do." 

"Yes," I answered, taking a seat. "I've been on 
the music-hall stage, but now I shall try to get into 
high-class drama and play Shakespeare." 

"What !" he exclaimed, frowning terribly. "You've 
been on at the halls !" 

He looked very pained, very serious. He is one of 
those who have always encouraged me to do "better 
things." 

"I only meant I have been doing 'yellow journal- 
ism/ and now I want to write for your high-class 
magazine," I answered. 

"Then why didn't you say so? Why mention the 
halls ? Why frighten your friends ?" 

He is the typically serious Briton, this editor. 

There is one editor on my list whose great kindness 
to me at a very trying time in my London career will 
always be one of my happiest recollections. He had 
asked me to write on a certain American subject for 
his periodical, and I had asked him whether on the 
completion of the article, it would be convenient for 
him to pay me before publication. 

"Certainly," he said, "I will do it with the greatest 
pleasure." 

When I was writing the article I found the sub- 
ject a most difficult one to manage. I was to have 
condemned certain American things, certain Ameri- 
can customs. I had not been in England very long 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 279 

at that time, and I found it more hard than I had 
imagined it would be to criticise with a sharp-pointed 
pen any institution, however bad, that was a part of 
my own country. I feared also to offend certain per- 
sons in my native land. As a result, the article I 
wrote was useless for the purpose for which the editor 
had intended it. It was deplorably weak. I had 
"hedged," and in "hedging" I had spoiled my article. 
Yet, when I handed it to the editor I did not know 
of these faults. He sent me a check immediately, 
and then several weeks and a few months went by and 
I heard nothing of it, though I knew he had expected 
to make early use of it. Finally I wrote asking if 
anything were the matter with the article, and he 
asked me to call on him. 

Was ever a great and distinguished editor so kind 
to a struggling contributor? "I found it would not 
do at all," he said, ever so gently. "I wanted some- 
thing very strong and condemnatory, and you have 
written a bright article, but you have been afraid to 
say what you thought. You have 'hedged' terribly! 
It has seemed as though you were afraid to offend 
some of your countrymen. Now, let us read over 
some of these pages, and see if you don't agree 
with me." 

We read it over together. He pointed out the mis- 
takes, the weaknesses, the truly awful "hedging." 

"Yes, I see it all now," I said. "I was afraid, as 
you say. I was afraid some of the papers in my 
country would pitch into me and hurt me in some 
ways. But I shan't mind it now. I'll take the article, 
now I see the mistakes, and I know I can make it 



280 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

what you want. I'll re-write and revise it all. You 
have paid for a certain kind of article, and you have 
the right to demand it." 

"I think I will not let you do that, though you 
offer/' he returned, smiling. "I believe the kind of 
article I want is not the kind of one you ought to 
write in your present circumstances. You write for 
some of the American papers. You will not want to 
gain their enmity by criticising your own country's 
institutions. It may do you irreparable injury for 
this article to be printed. I hope the time will come 
when you will be independent enough to use your 
pen for principle for the sake of principle, whether 
or not it offend certain classes. But the time is not 
yet. You are not old enough, nor advanced far 
enough in your career to take such a stand. I will 
not publish the article I so desired, even if you write 
it for me." 

I started back in_ horror. "Oh, but you have paid 
for it !" I exclaimed. I did not add that I had used 
the money to pay a very pressing debt, and that I 
had no means of giving it back to him, but I think he 
suspected it. He answered laughingly — 

"That money is safe — well invested ! Never fear ! 
You will one day write for me such an article on this 
subject as will make us both glad that this one was a 
failure. I want you to feel that I have paid you that 
money as one pays a lawyer a retaining fee — to se- 
cure myself for the good, strong, non-hedging article 
you are going to write for me on this subject some 
time in the future, perhaps within the next five or 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 281 

six years, when you are in such a position that you 
can and ought to write it." 

Three or four years afterwards I wrote the article 
he desired. I did others on different subjects for 
him in the meantime, for which I was paid as though 
I were not largely in his debt. "I now pay you my 
debt/' I wrote to him, when I finally felt that I was 
able to do what he wanted. "Thank you, thank you," 
he wrote back. "I find in reading your manuscript 
that you have paid me a very good rate of interest on 
my little loan !" 

Good friends, indeed, I left in America, and good 
friends I came back to in England. Would that all 
struggling, half -discouraged women journalists 
might fall into the hands of such whole-souled Anglo- 
American editors as many of those for whom it has 
been my good fortune to work! 

Again I turn over some of the pages 01 the book 
of remembrance on my desk. I can only mention a 
few of them out of the many. Here is the editor 
who always writes to me in a hurry. His letters are 
somewhat like telegrams, so brief and so to the point 
are they when he sends me an order for a "rush 
contribution." 

"Can you not write me some typical American 
love-letters? I would not wish them to run to more 
than four or five pages. Faithfully yours " 

This was the startling communication that came 
to me from the "editor in a hurry," about a year ago. 
I considered it altogether too terse and abrupt, not 
to say brutal, even for an editor, to write thus on 
such a subject, even limiting one to the number of 



282 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

pages on which she might express her feelings, so I 
dispatched the following answer: — 

"I'm afraid I cannot. Your request is altogether 
too sndden. I had no idea that you would desire 
anything of this sort. Even if I attempted it, I 
greatly fear I could not suit you, and I certainly 
would not wish to be limited in this peremptory way. 
I would advise you to try an Englishwoman, who 
would be more apt to meet your peculiar require- 
ments, than an independent American woman. 
Faithfully yours " 

Of course, a somewhat more lucid and enlighten- 
ing epistle followed. It seemed that people of all 
nations were writing love-letters for publication, and 
he desired to print some samples of American litera- 
ture of that sort. He added, "Of course, you see, 
I'm rather pressed for space, but if you can't manage 
it in four or five of your type-written pages, I could 
grant you a little more perhaps, but do be as brief 
as possible." 

Certainly. But, as my "serious editor" asked in 
regard to the music-halls, why didn't the "editor in a 
hurry" say what he meant in the beginning? 

There are many others. These are but sample 
blossoms from my "editorial bouquet." 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 283 



CHAPTER XXV. 

ON" INTERVIEWING AND SOME INTERVIEWS. 

It is one of my chief ambitions as a journalist to 
become a really excellent interviewer. That goal 
I have not yet reached, bnt it is one towards which I 
strive. Interviewing, or doing what in newspaper 
parlance is known as "personal write-ups," is, it 
seems to me, the most pleasant, interesting, and edi- 
fying branch of journalistic work that can be taken 
up by a woman. It throws her into contact with the 
great, the extraordinary, and the interesting people 
of the world. 

I consider that, other things being equal, women 
make much better interviewers than men, for the 
reason that they are usually more tactful, and have — 
well, yes, I feel that candor compels me to admit it — ■ 
a far greater amount of adroitness among their nat- 
ural characteristics. They are also quicker and more 
apt at observing and taking account of the little 
things of life, and more capable of making "much 
ado about nothing" when they return to their offices 
after having been in conversation with a prominent 
personage. If a woman knows herself to have no 
tact, no adroitness, and has not the talent for turn- 
ing small and apparently unimportant things into 
interesting "copy," then she should never attempt 



284 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

the "personal write-up" department of journalism, 
for she cannot succeed in doing anything but boring 
her readers. 

In the days when I was a "heroine" a young Eng- 
lish woman journalist called to write me up after I 
had several times been interviewed by other papers. 
She found me sitting at my typewriter, but not 
writing, for there were four kittens, three weeks old, 
in my lap whose mother had forsaken them, and I 
was warming milk for them over a spirit stove, and 
feeding them with the milk, each in its turn, from an 
after-dinner coffee-spoon. Judge stood beside me, 
eyeing the proceedings with great interest, and as 
each kitten was sufficiently fed he would take it 
gently from my lap and carry it in his mouth across 
the room to the sofa, just as he had seen its mother do. 

"I can't rise arid shake hands with you properly," 
I said, laughing, to the young woman as she entered, 
"because, you see, I'm a woman of family, and Fve 
got domestic duties !" 

The young woman journalist took out a note-book, 
and when she was seated asked where I was born, 
where I was educated, what I had done in American 
journalism, and what was my opinion of the woman's 
movement, all of which things had appeared in the 
papers dozens of times before. How dry, how alto- 
gether uninteresting, were the facts relating to my 
birth, my education, and even my opinion of the 
"woman's movement" — if I had any, which I hadn't 
— compared with my feeding of the motherless kit- 
tens from after-dinner coffee-spoons, and Judge's 
carrying them about in mother-cat-like fashion! 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 285 

There was that young woman's story, but she failed 
to grasp it. 

Some time later another English woman journalist 
came to write me up. She had no note-book, and 
when I discovered that fact I made up my mind that 
she was a good interviewer, for the best interviewers 
do not carry note-books. They are the signs of an 
out-of-date, dry-as-dust journalism. Judge had met 
her at the door and conducted her to my sitting- 
room. She patted him, inquired his name, and said 
it was so singular for a dog she could not possibly 
forget it. We talked on all sorts of subjects. I told 
her the story of how I had once demanded to be 
treated like a man on the Southern paper, and some 
of my experiences in Peru. We had tea together, 
just like two women friends, and when she was 
leaving I said: — 

"Of course, we've been talking informally, but I 
know you understand what I'd like to have go in 
print and what I wouldn't." 

"Oh, yes ! It will be all right," she said, "but if 
you wish, I could send you a proof of my article." 

"Never mind about the proof," I returned. "I 
believe you to be the model interviewer, and I leave 
myself in your hands." 

I could not have done better than to have left it all 
to her judgment, for such a bright, entertaining ac- 
count of her visit to me did she write as to confirm 
my opinion that she was the model interviewer. She 
had the tact, the adroitness, the art of turning little 
incidents into entertaining "copy," and, being a 
student of character and human nature, she had 



286 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"sized me up" most wonderfully well. That was 
several years ago, and she is now one of the finest 
interviewers in England. Many are the newspapers 
and magazines I pick up to find in them her bright 
little personal sketches of people of the day, and I 
always know that she can turn even the most uninter- 
esting interviewees into interesting "copy." 

One of the great disappointments of my journal- 
istic career has been that I was not able to interview 
Mr. Gladstone. It was my desire to write a character 
sketch of him for both an English and an American 
paper, and one day about six years ago I went to 
Hawarden Castle for that purpose. I carried with 
me a letter I had previously written, telling him that 
I was an American, that I desired not to interview 
him on any particular subject, but only to see him, 
that I might put my visit to him in my journalistic 
book of remembrance. At Hawarden Castle I sat on 
a chair in the hall. It was quite near another chair 
which, I fancied, had served as a tea-table for little 
Dorothy Drew, for on it was an apple-core and a bit 
of a broken dolly. The servant carried my letter to 
Mr. Gladstone while I waited in the hall, and he re- 
turned presently saying that he had delivered it and 
that his master would send his reply in a minute or 
two. My heart beat high with anticipation, for I 
believed that the Grand Old Man would see me. He 
could not, I thought, turn away an American woman 
who had gone so very far to see him. 

I had waited, perhaps, ten minutes, when a car- 
riage drove up to the Castle, and there alighted from 
it a woman, whom, from the portraits I had seen of 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 287 

her, I recognized as Mrs. Gladstone. She had with 
her a little girl, doubtless Dorothy Drew. When 
she got into the hall she looked at me in amazement, 
then came towards me, very near, and observed me 
again, but she said not a word. She went a few 
steps and called to a servant. I thought I heard 
her ask, "Who is that young person?" He made 
some explanations which I knew referred to me and 
my motive for calling upon Mr. Gladstone, and she 
hurriedly went up the stairs. In two minutes there 
came to me the message by the servant. 

"Mr. Gladstone's compliments, miss, and he re- 
grets he cannot see you." 

"Was Mrs. Gladstone the lady who passed me just 
now?" I asked. 

"Yes, miss," he answered. 

Had she prevented it? I do not know. 

I was, I believe, the first woman journalist who 
ever interviewed that wily old Celestial, Li Hung 
Chang, and the first woman to whom he talked after 
he arrived in England. I had heard he was an early 
riser, so I got up very early one morning to call on 
him before I had my breakfast. When I asked for 
him at Lord Lonsdale's residence, they told me I 
had got there too late, that His Excellency was about 
to go driving. 

"Please go and say to His Excellency that an 
American woman journalist called to see him before 
she had her breakfast, knowing that he was an early 
riser, and that she is sorry she got here too late. Tell 
him that the Americans are also early risers, and 
that the American woman will call on him to-morrow 



288 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

morning at seven o'clock, and if that is too late she 
will call the next day at six, and if that's still too 
late, she will come the next morning at five, but that 
she must see him." 

This was the message that gained for me admit- 
tance to Li Hung Chang, for in ten minutes the 
attendant had returned, saying: — 

"His Excellency will be delighted to see the Ameri- 
can lady." 

He was very nice and polite, in his way, was Li 
Hung Chang, though instead of my being allowed 
to interview him, he interviewed me. When he 
asked me my age and my yearly income, I thought 
he was getting too personal and did not deserve to 
know the truth, so I added to my income all that 
I subtracted from my age, and when he demanded 
to know why I did not get married, I hedged as best 
I could. He gave me a medallion portrait of himself 
in a purple morocco jewel-box, and told me always 
to keep it memory of the Old Man of China. Not- 
withstanding all the things the Powers credited, or 
rather discredited, him with during the later days 
of the Chinese Question, how could I feel but kindly 
towards Li Hung Chang? For from England he 
went to America, and, being interviewed by the rep- 
resentative of a Chicago paper, he referred in a most 
complimentary way to an American woman who had 
interviewed him in London, and asked to be intro- 
duced to some more just like her. The gold might 
wear off of that medallion he gave me — indeed, when 
I look at it these days, I have sometimes thought it 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIKL" 289 

was not quite so shiny as it was the day he gave it; 
and no matter what happened in China, I have always 
felt down in my heart a sneaking liking for the wily 
old man. 

When I was employed on a New York paper, I 
went to Lewiston, Maine, to see Mr. Dingley, and 
tell him, what, as an American woman, I thought 
about his outrageous tariff bill, and "one-hundred 
dollar clause." I took along with me a lot of ribbons 
and laces that I had bought in London, and some 
that I had bought in New York, in order to give him 
an object lesson in the difference of prices, in the 
two countries. I called his attention to the hat I had 
bought for a guinea in London, and explained that 
in New York it would have cost twenty dollars. I 
told him how he was the cause of turning honest 
American women into smugglers. Mr. Dingley was 
about the most unreasonable and unconvincible man 
I ever interviewed. I did my best to get him to 
change his mind on the tariff question, and especially 
to have repealed the obnoxious hundred-dollar clause, 
but he was smiling adamant. However, I remember 
him as most kind, pleasant, and helpful, so far as 
giving me "copy" was concerned, and none laughed 
more heartily than did he, when my terrible arraign- 
ment of him as "The Enemy of American Woman- 
kind" appeared in the paper. When he died, four 
years ago, the little "In Memoriam" I wrote came 
from my heart. A kind, good man, and the typical 
American gentleman, was Mr. Dingley, of Dingley 
Tariff fame. 



290 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

I have also the most pleasant recollection of an 
interview with the late Henry George. "What will 
yon say about me? 7 ' he asked laughingly, after we 
had had a chat during the days when he was running 
for mayor of New York. 

"I will say, Mr. George/' I replied, "that I have 
interviewed an honest man, and that man was Henry 
George !" 

"Ah, thank you! Success to you, my friend/' he 
said as he shook hands. It was but a few days after- 
wards that I was sent to get some of the details of 
his sudden death, which came just at the end of that 
hard-fought municipal campaign, and I was very 
glad I had met him, and had been able to write my 
story of the Honest Man. 

One of the pleasantest interviews I have ever had 
was with Sir Thomas Lipton, a little while before he 
made his attempt to "lift" the America Cup. Very 
chivalrous, very observing, very intent upon making 
his interviewer enjoy the process as much as he 
seemed to be enjoying it, did I find the great tea 
merchant. I went to his place at New Southgate, 
was met at the station by his carriage, and as I en- 
tered his door, he shook hands and said — 

"Let me thank you for the compliment !" 

"Compliment !" I answered. "Which one ?" 

"The wearing of the green!" he replied, bowing 
gallantly. 

Then I remembered that I was wearing a green 
dress and a hat with three green feathers. 

"Oh, yes," I returned promptly, "I wore my green 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 291 

clothes purposely, in honor of my visit to the owner 
of the Shamrock." 

To be sure, it was not true. I regret to say that 
my "wearing of the green" that day was an accident, 
but what woman would not stretch a point with her 
conscience when a man was so tactful, so diplomatic, 
and so observant, as to notice and speak about the 
color of her dress and ostrich plumes? With such 
an auspicious beginning the interview could not help 
proving a success, especially as my genial host went 
on to explain how he had taken his two favorite 
thoroughbred Kentucky horses from the stable, and 
sent them to meet his American visitor by way of 
paying a most especial compliment. He gave me tea 
of his own very best, and as we were about to drink 
it he said — 

"Now, about that cup !" 

Naturally I thought he referred to the cup of tea I 
held in my hand, so I said — 

"Sir Thomas, it is yours ! What more can I say ?" 

"That is very kind, though almost unpatriotic of 
you, an American woman, to prophesy that I shall 
win the America Cup !" returned Sir Thomas. Then 
I laughed, for it seemed we had been referring to two 
different cups altogether ; but when the afternoon had 
passed, and the Kentucky horses were again brought 
out to take me to the station, we had another mis- 
understanding of the same sort. I had become great 
friends with Sir Thomas's little Pomeranian dog, 
which he had named "Shamrock" in honor of his 
boat, and the little dog was, of course, at the door 
when I took my leave. 



292 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Well, Sir Thomas," I said, "good-bye. May the 
best boat win, and may the best boat be " 

I was springing into the carriage when I felt a 
tugging at my skirts and a gentle snapping at my 
heels. It was the sweet little Shamrock bidding me 
adien, and I cried out — 

"Oh, Shamrock! Shamrock!" 

"That's right!" shouted Sir Thomas as I drove 
away, "I knew you would wish me luck !" 

And what did Sir Thomas Lipton do but after- 
wards tell a story of an American woman journalist 
who had interviewed him, and when she was going 
away said to him — 

"Good-bye. May the best boat win, and may the 
best boat be — Shamrock!" 

From gay to sad, from smiles to tears. This is the 
way of life, and this is the way of my reminiscences 
of some that I have interviewed, for only recently 
there came to me news of the death of the first person 
I interviewed after I came to London nine years ago 
— the man who afterwards became my good friend, 
Sir Walter Besant. He was not "Sir Walter" then. 
I entered his office one day with all the self-confidence 
and assurance of the newly-arrived American girl in 
London, and going up to him as he sat at his desk, 
I said — 

"I know you must be Mr. Besant. I just loved 
your Children of Gib eon. I'm an American, and I 
want to interview you on the subject of woman's 
sphere, so I can put it in the paper." 

The kind-faced man rose, extended his hand in 
welcome, and laughed right heartily, as he said — 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 293 

"I'm glad to see you. But you needed not to 
mention the fact of your being an American." 

Then I interviewed him, and got his opinion of 
"woman's sphere/' and was surprised to find him so 
very old-fashioned in his views of it. I earned a 
pound with that interview, and Mr. Besant wrote and 
complimented me. 

Another time I went to him. It was while my 
serial, describing my experience as a housemaid, was 
appearing in one of the London papers. He had 
written, telling me how glad he was that I had started 
out in that work. Most of the critics were treating 
me very kindly indeed, but that day I had seen a 
notice which I thought was unjust, not to say cruel. 
I carried it with me to Mr. Besant, and as I talked 
to him of the troubles of my career as a housemaid, 
I grew very tearful. 

"Never mind ! Never mind !" said he. "Why, you 
have started out on a great work. It will do you 
good and all the working girls of London. You are 
going to do in real life what my heroines do in fiction. 
I shall take the greatest interest in watching what 
you do in London, for now you are one of my 
heroines." 

So kind, so good, so encouraging was he, that I 
went away with a greater determination to do my 
best than I had ever felt before, and the next day 
there came a note from him, saying, "Don't get dis- 
couraged, but do your best, and read the next number 
of The Queen." 

So I read the next number of The Queen, and I 



294 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

found there a jolly, jingling little poem entitled, 
"The Lady Housemaid/ 7 by Walter Besant. 

"The house and all about it, within and without it, 
Its manners and its residents, we know; 
Lines of houses, miles and miles — from the ground-floor 
to the tiles: 
How they live and how they carry on their show. 

"But the mysteries begin, — deep and dark and black as sin, 
When you ask about the Cap and Apron ranks; 
How they spend their busy days, what they think of 
Fashion's ways — 
'Let me clear this mystery up!' said Miss Banks. 

"So an apron white she made, and a cap, for which she paid, 
And she humbly entered down the area stair; 
And behold a Transformation ! A Fairy tale in variation ! 
A housemaid, meek and mild, once lady fair!" 

On through several stanzas went the little poem, 
telling how "She had a little book, and observations 
took/' and how now the "lady housemaid" was going 
to tell the world all about it, "And receive the world's 
approval and its thanks." 

Was there ever a kindlier thing done by a busy 
author for the sake of encouraging a struggling 
young woman just entering on her career? And in 
the years that followed, when Mr. Besant had become 
"Sir Walter," I went to him and wrote to him often, 
telling of my work, my successes, my failures, and 
received from him such kind words and letters of 
advice as helped me over many a rough place. 

"Are you very busy, Sir Walter?" I used to ask, 
when I went to his office to ask his advice, or tell him 
of things that happened in my career or the careers of 
others in which I thought he would take an interest. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 295 

"Very, very busy," he would reply, smiling through 
his glasses, "but not too busy." The last time I saw 
him, a few months before his death, he told me how 
great was his interest in the "Atlantic Union" as a 
means of drawing together the United States and 
England. He explained how American and Cana- 
dian men of note, visiting England, were to be taken 
in hand when they arrived, and be given a "real good 
time," and shown all the sights by their English 
brothers. "Be sure you give my 'Atlantic Union' a 
puff whenever you can, in your letters over to the 
American papers," he said, in the same sort of simple, 
refreshing way that a young writer would ask for a 
newspaper notice. That was the very last thing he 
said to me, as I was going out of the door. It is a 
pleasant memory, that he should, for what proved to 
be his farewell message to me, admonish me to do 
what I could towards cementing the friendship be- 
tween my country and his. 

I am only one of the many belonging to the 
younger generation of writers, who have much for 
which to thank Sir Walter Besant. He was the friend 
of all members of his craft, but most especially of 
beginners. 



296 THE AUTOBIOGEAPHY 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

ABOUT MY ENEMIES, AND THE MEANEST MAN I 
EVER MET. 

When I started out to write my "memoirs" I took 
for my motto the advice which Mrs. Lynn Linton 
gave me a few years ago, on the occasion of my event- 
ful interview with her — "Guard against bitterness 
and cynicism. Have faith and hope and charity, 
especially charity." 

It has been my desire, in the main, to tell of pleas- 
ant happenings in my career, of kindnesses done to 
me, of helping hands held out, of struggles with diffi- 
culties, finally overcome, of silver linings discovered 
to my clouds. It was only the other day that, on my 
remarking that I had nearly finished the writing of 
my autobiography, one of my editors said to me — 

"Ah ! Now, I suppose, we must look out for squalls. 
I suppose in this book you have written up all your 
enemies and are going to pay off old scores." 

"On the contrary," I replied, "I have been writing 
up my friends, and letting my enemies alone. I love 
my friends and despise my enemies, and I wouldn't 
give the latter the satisfaction of thinking that they 
or their doings were important enough to be put into 
a book." 

I am just wondering now whether, having gone on 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 297 

this principle, and said little or nothing abont people 
who have done me "mean turns" during my journal- 
istic career, I may not have given my readers the 
impression that I have only been brought into contact 
with good-natured, kind, amiable persons who have 
done their best to make things pleasant for me; that 
I have not known what it was to be harassed about 
with foes who "talked about me," tried to pull me 
down when I have been trying to climb, laid snares 
and traps for me, and did their best to compass my 
downfall. It may be thought that, in short, I can 
always truthfully be singing — 

"Oh, everybody's awfully good to me!" 

But this is entirely a misconception. Why, during 
my career at earning a livelihood, it has sometimes 
seemed to me that I have met more disagreeable, 
mean, wicked, and positively vicious people to the 
square mile than anybody else could possibly have 
met. The "mean turns" they have done me and tried 
to do me are without number. Enemies? Of course 
I have had, and probably still have, more of them 
than I could "shake a stick at." But I do not con- 
sider it my business to go about chastising them. I 
let them chastise themselves, which I have noticed 
they generally seem bound to do in the end, and then 
I triumphantly exclaim with David — 

"He (or she!) made a pit and digged it, and is 
fallen into the ditch which he (or she!) made!" 

This much, or rather this little, about my enemies. 
And now I will tell the story of the meanest man I 
ever met. 



298 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

I am sorry to say that the meanest man I ever met 
was an American, though I hasten to add that he was 
the meanest man not because, but in spite, of his 
nationality. It is about ten years since I made his 
acquaintance, and it happened in this wise: — 

Just before I came to London I was, as I have 
related in one of the earlier chapters of this book, 
employed as society editor on a prominent paper in 
one of our Southern towns, and one day, wishing to 
take a run over to New York, I said to the Colonel, 
the managing editor — 

"I want to go to New York. May I use the 'pass- 
book'?" 

"Certainly," he replied; "but it will not pass you 
beyond Philadelphia, which is only half-way. You 
can go there and back on it, but from there to New 
York and from New York back again to Philadelphia 
you will have to pay." 

Inside the pass-book the managing editor slipped 
a little note which read: "To the conductor. This 
certifies that Miss Elizabeth Banks is society editor 
of this paper, and is entitled to use this pass-book 
between Philadelphia and this city, either way." 

Now, if I had gone to New York contented with 
that, all would have been well with me; but, having 
got that help which stood for, the remittance of half 
my railway fare, I determined, after the manner of 
Oliver Twist, to "ask for more"; so I wired on to 
a friendly politician in New York saying, "Please 
send pass both ways — New York-Philadelphia." I 
felt sure I would get that pass, for I had once given 
that gentleman a "write-up," and he had over- 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 299 

whelmed me with thanks, and had told me that when- 
ever I wanted to travel on a particular railroad I was 
to inform him, so that he could send me a pass. The 
next morning came a letter from him. 

"I am only too glad to do this little service for 
you/' he wrote. "I inclose the pass, which you will 
see is made out for my daughter, as I am not sup- 
posed to get passes for anybody except myself and 
the members of my own family. That, however, is 
all right. My daughter is about your age, and you 
can travel as my daughter." 

When I started on that journey I used my pass- 
book to Philadelphia. There, though I remained on 
the same train, a new conductor took charge because 
the train traveled to New York by a different road. 
I handed him my other pass, a paper on which was 
written "Pass Miss Blanketty Blank. New York to 
Philadelphia and return." 

That conductor took the paper, tore it along the 
perforated line, handed me back a part of it, and I 
put it in my purse for the return journey. 

On the last day of my stay in New York I went 
shopping, and spent all the money I had except about 
three dollars. I saved that amount to pay my parlor- 
car fee (for which no pass could ever be secured) and 
a late dinner on the train. The thought of arriving 
home penniless did not trouble me, for my week's 
salary would be due and waiting for me in the cash- 
ier's desk when I got back. 

"Ticket, please," said the conductor, when I was 
seated in the train for the return journey. 

"Pass !" I answered mechanically, handing him the 



300 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

slip of paper which the conductor on the outgoing 
journey had returned to me when he took up my pass. 

"This is no pass. It's a coupon torn off a pass !" 
said the conductor, when he had examined it. 

I was astonished, but as soon as he handed it back 
to me for examination I saw that he spoke the truth. 
It was just such a voucher as one leaves in a check- 
book after tearing out a check. It had on it a num- 
ber and the duplicate words, "Pass Miss Blanketty 
Blank, New York to Philadelphia and return," but 
no signature, no official stamp. I saw what had hap- 
pened. My pass had said "New York to Philadel- 
phia and return," when it should have been made 
out the other way — "Philadelphia to New York and 
return." In going to New York, the conductor had 
taken it for granted that I was returning there from 
Philadelphia, had kept my pass and given me back 
the voucher, which was nothing but a receipt for it. 
I explained all this to the conductor on the home- 
ward journey. 

"That may be true," he answered; "but that does 
not alter the fact that you will have to pay me the 
fare from New York to Philadelphia." 

Pay the fare ! Great heavens ! I had only ninety 
cents, for I had already paid for my Pullman seat and 
for my dinner. 

"I can't pay the fare!" I answered. "I haven't 
got it !" 

"Then I'll have to put you off the train at the next 
depot." 

Now the "next depot" was little more than a log 
cabin in the wilderness. A pretty plight, indeed, for 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 301 

me to be turned off there at night, and in the thunder- 
storm which was raging. If I could only get to 
Philadelphia I knew I would be safe, for a new con- 
ductor would take on the train. I would give him my 
proper newspaper pass-book, and I would be myself 
again. This, however, I could not admit to the 
present conductor, for to do so would be to confess 
that I had been traveling to Philadelphia under false 
pretences. The trouble this would cause me would be 
slight compared with what would ensue for my friend 
Senator Blanketty Blank, who had given me a pass 
made out for his daughter. 

"I wish you would let me go on to Philadelphia," 
I said persuasively, to the conductor. "I have friends 
there with whom I could stop over night while I tele- 
graphed home for money/ 

"Can't do that," he replied; "but HI tell you what! 
I can do. I will telegraph to your father if you will 
give me his address." 

My father! It suddenly occurred to me that the 
conductor was referring to the eminent Senator 
Blanketty Blank. 

"He's not in New York," I answered; "he is on 
the road to Chicago, so you could not reach him. Let 
me think a minute, let me think !" 

"You'll have just twenty minutes to think in, Miss 
Blank," replied the conductor, sneeringly, "and then 
off the train at the next depot you go !" 

"You seem to be in trouble. Can I assist you in 
any way?" I heard a voice saying, as the conductor 
moved down the corridor. I knew it must be the 
voice of the man who sat in the chair opposite me, 



302 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

for we two were the only occupants of the car. My 
heart leaped for joy as I looked into his face. Here 
was my deliverer! I would give him my card, and 
tell him my story, and he would laugh, after the 
manner of a gallant American knight rescuing an 
American maiden in distress. I liked his face. It 
seemed kind and benevolent, though in his dress and 
manner he looked a veritable man of the world. 

"Have you heard the conversation between me and 
the conductor?" I asked. 

"Yes," he answered. 

"You can render me great assistance," I returned; 
<f but if I accept it, I must take you into my confi- 
dence and tell you the whole truth, which I dare not 
tell the conductor. May I confide in you?" 

"Most certainly you may !" he replied. 

Thereupon I told him everything; how I was not 
Miss Blanketty Blank at all, but only myself. I gave 
him my proper card and showed him my newspaper 
pass-book, and my editor's letter of identification. 

"Have you no money at all ?" he asked. 

"Ninety cents !" I said, laughing. 

"The fare to Philadelphia is two dollars and 
eighty-five cents, is it not?" he asked; "and I take 
it you would like to borrow one dollar and ninety- 
five cents?" 

I answered that this was the fact, though I won- 
dered how I was to get home from the station when 
I arrived at the end of my journey. 

Cf Yery well. I am able to make you this loan, 
of which you seem to stand greatly in need ; but you 
are a stranger to me, and how do I know I shall ever 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 303 

get it back again? A few minutes ago you were 
passing yourself off as the daughter of Senator 
Blank. Now you show me papers that would go to 
prove you to be some other person ! How do I know 
you are that person either, instead of an adventuress 
trying to get a railway journey for nothing?" 

He looked serious enough, but I judged he was 
one of our dry American humorists, and I laughed. 
There was, however, no answering laugh, and I was 
puzzled. 

"I will lend you the dollar and ninety-five cents 
if you can give me collateral, something of equal 
value, which I can keep in case you cheat me." 

"I cheat you !" I exclaimed angrily. "Have I not 
shown you a letter testifying that I hold a responsible 
position on a prominent paper? My salary awaits me 
in the office, and you will receive your dollar and 
ninety-five cents to-morrow by registered letter." 

"Excuse me, but, as I said before, you have been 
traveling in a dishonest manner, and I am not willing 
to trust you without collateral. I notice that you 
have a ring on your finger. I am willing to take that 
as collateral and give you a receipt for it. It will, I 
presume, cover the amount of your indebtedness to 
me." 

My ring worth one dollar and ninety-five cents ! 
My ring with its diamonds surrounding a turquoise ! 
Dared I pawn it for my fare to Philadelphia ? 

"You say you do not know but I am intending to 
cheat you," I said. "May I remind you that this 
ring is worth a goodly sum of money, and ask how 



304 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

I am to know you are not a highwayman trying to 
rob me?" 

"Here is my card," he replied, handing me a paste- 
board. "I am quite indifferent as to whether you 
accept my offer or refuse it. If you do not accept 
it you will be put off at the next depot, and if you 
do accept, it must be on the terms I have mentioned. 
I never lend money to anyone without security." 

My brain was in a whirl, and I was getting fright- 
ened. "I accept your offer," I answered. "Please 
give me a receipt for it and the money to pay my 
fare. I will send you the money as soon as I arrive 
home, and I suppose I shall have my ring back at 
once." 

"Certainly!" he replied, handing me a pencil- 
written receipt and the money. Then I paid the 
conductor. At Philadelphia the man with my ring 
got out. The old conductor also left the train, and 
to the new one I gave my pass-book, which took me on. 

From the station to the office I walked through 
the pouring rain, and found the editors and reporters 
still at work. To them I told the story of my return 
trip, and how I had pawned my ring for one dollar 
and ninety-five cents to a man of whom I had never 
before heard — a man who had given me in return a 
pencil receipt written on the back of a card which 
gave a name and an address in Philadelphia. At first 
my confreres laughed, but suddenly they grew serious. 
They supplied me with the money that was needed, 
but declared that I had better keep it, for I had no 
doubt been made the victim of a swindler. We got 
the money off to Philadelphia that morning, and I 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 305 

waited two days for my ring. The ring I valued, not 
because of its monetary worth, but because of its 
associations, and when the second day passed I be- 
came a fit subject for a lunatic asylum. On the third 
day I sent four telegrams after it, and numerous 
members of the staff offered to go to Philadelphia 
to try to trace it and the swindler, but when they 
considered that it must become publicly known that 
I had traveled as somebody else, and that the eminent 
politician must be placed in a predicament, that plan 
was abandoned. 

On the morning of the fourth day my ring arrived, 
and with it a letter, which read as follows : — 

"Madam — The heading of the paper on which I 
write will show you the responsible position I hold 

as superintendent of the Sunday School, and a 

worker among the poor and the erring ones of this 
great town, as well as the business firm of which I 
am the head. The principle which governs all my 
actions is that of trying to do good and teach lessons 
of righteousness. I took your ring, and have kept 
you waiting thus long for it, in order to give you a 
lifelong lesson never to travel under false pretenses 
again. I knew who you were from the moment I 
saw you, even before you had your trouble with the 
conductor, having seen you at a reception in your 
city, and had you pointed out to me by a friend. I 
knew, of course, you would send me back the money 
you borrowed, but I took your ring to make you 
worry, and so punish you for the sin you committed 
by traveling with a pass made out for another person. 



306 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I hope the lesson will not be without good results 
and an effect on your future life and character. 

"Yours very truly, " 

I could, if I would, give the name of a man well 
known in the city of Philadelphia, as the writer of 
the above letter, but I am not too cruel, and I content 
myself by putting him in this book as the meanest 
man I ever met. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 307 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

LOOKING BACKWARD — AND FORWARD. 

As I come to the final chapter of my reminiscences, 
which take in a journalistic career of something over 
a decade, I find there is a tendency to retrospection — 
a looking backward. Again I see myself as I stood 
in the door of the proprietor's office in that newspaper 
building out West, asking the white-haired man who 
sat at his desk, "Do you own the paper?" Again I 
hear him say — 

"A newspaper girl ! A newspaper girl ! Don't think 
of it ! Be anything, but don't be a newspaper girl." 

Yet I did think of it. I became a "newspaper 
girl," and I am not sorry. 

Still, I can appreciate the kindly motive of the wise 
old man in thus warning me off at the threshold. He 
peered into the future, he saw the struggles, the hard 
tasks to be performed, the tears, the tragedies, the 
plucking at the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and 
Evil, the learning somewhat of the mysteries of life, 
the sins, the sadnesses, which must come into my 
experience, once I had started on the way, so in pity 
he said to me, "Go back to the grocer and tell him 
you made a mistake when you said you were going to 
be a newspaper girl." 

Then, as I was not to be turned back, he took me 



308 THE AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

on and gave me my start — a better start, a kinder 
start, a more helpful start, it has often seemed to me, 
than falls to the lot of many girls who begin the life 
journalistic. 

However, I do not think it can be said by those 
who read this description of the part of my career 
through which I have already passed, that my ex- 
perience has been an altogether easy one, or that 
whatever of the beginnings of success I have already 
attained, has been the result of luck rather than of 
hard work. 

I speak of the "beginnings of success/' for that is 
all I yet can claim. I am far from that point in my 
career where it could be truly said of me that I had 
"arrived" in the proper sense of the term, though in 
one way I have "arrived" — arrived at the parting of 
the ways. Up to the present time I have always been 
engaged in writing about facts, when I have longed 
to try my hand at something in the way of fiction. 
My editors and the public have constantly demanded 
of me that I should go out and "make things hap- 
pen." They have kept saying to me, "Write about 
yourself. Write about yourself." 

So, up to the present, I have been engaged mostly 
in writing about myself, and have, perforce, been 
my own "heroine," till finally I decided to write this, 
my journalistic autobiography, down to date, and tell 
all about myself in one book, at one writing, and here- 
after it is my intention to begin to "make up things," 
and write stories with other heroines than myself, 
and heroes, too. Most writers would, I suppose, have 
waited till the far-off future before telling the story 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 309 

of their lives and their experiences to the public. 
Then they would have written a book of memoirs that 
would extend over a much longer period than do 
these, my reminiscences, which I publish while I am 
a struggling, working, woman journalist, to help to 
keep the pot a-boiling, while I press towards the prize 
of the mark of my high calling. 

For it is a high calling. Shame to those journal- 
ists who write to aspirants who would enter a jour- 
nalistic career : "If you have enough money to buy 
a broom with which to sweep a crossing, then become 
a crossing-sweeper rather than a journalist !" 

Who has not read this sort of advice from men, 
and some women, too, who themselves are successful 
journalists, yet who try to belittle their profession by 
speaking thus meanly of it? 

No, it is not better to be a crossing-sweeper than 
to be a journalist! I, perhaps, can speak more 
authoritatively in this matter than can most persons, 
for I have been a crossing-sweeper as well as a 
journalist ! 

To any young woman who asks me whether she 
shall enter upon a journalistic career, I say, "Yes, if 
you are ready." I do not say that you should come 
by all means, under every circumstance. I say, come 
if you are ready. 

The yoke is not always easy, the burden is not 
always light, but neither are they so in any other 
profession. If you are ready to work and ready to 
live, why not become a journalist ? Not more ignorant 
of the world and of life, nor more tremblingly fearful, 
not more hopeful than was I at the beginning, can 



310 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

you be now, so let not your heart be too much troubled 
at the outset. Come and learn, learn better than you 
can in any other profession open to our sex, what life, 
great, wide, teeming life, out in the world of men 
and women, is like. It will do you good. You be- 
long, perhaps, to the Guild of the Sorrowing. Some- 
thing of sadness has already come to you, and you 
think your heart will break unless you can work and 
forget. Come out with me, then, and look upon the 
sorrows of your sister women, you who hug your little 
tragedy to your breast, as though no woman but you 
ever had a tragedy. Look you! See how others 
suffer and yet live — yet smile, and talk no more of 
your breaking heart. Why, in this work-a-day world — 

"Hearts do not break; 
They sting and ache!" 

Nor is that all. Not only into Haunts of the 
Sorrowful must you go. You must enter also into 
some of the Haunts of Sin, and even this will not 
harm you. It will do you good. It will but teach 
you charity. It will show you how much are we all 
the creatures of circumstance. You will learn that 
you might have been as others, had the circumstances, 
the temptations, the trials, the hereditary influences, 
which surrounded those others, confronted you. 
Your work may take you to talk through prison bars 
to men and women condemned, perhaps, to death for 
murder, or to years of servitude for forgery, robbery, 
and it will not hurt you to talk with them, to learn 
something of their former lives. As I have said, it 
will do you good, for it will strengthen your charac- 
ter, while making your heart more tender. 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIKL" 311 

Shall you enter upon the journalistic career ? Yes, 
if you are ready ! Why not ? 



Ah, there is a knock at my door ! Though I have 
written a sign upon it — "keep off the grass" — by 
which everyone is supposed to understand that I am 
engaged in writing the last chapter of my Autobiog- 
raphy, and am not to be disturbed, the house parlor- 
maid walks in and says — 

"Miss, the man has brought the gas bill. He says 

if it is not paid by Friday " 

****** 

I could not finish this chapter until after I had 
stopped, right in the midst of it, to hurry off a "pot- 
boiler" to bring in the price of gas consumed. As I 
have already said, I have not yet "arrived," and there- 
fore I must still call myself a writer of "pot-boilers." 

One of the pleasant things to contemplate just at 
this stage of my career is the fact that I have got to 
the point where I can rattle off a "pot-boiler" very 
quickly, and I generally have a pretty good idea of 
where to send it to insure its acceptance. That I 
count as one of my greatest blessings, one of the 
encouraging aspects of my present position. I look 
forward to a time when I shall not have to write "pot- 
boilers," and need not be disturbed when I am finish- 
ing up a book by such commonplace, unromantic, 
and altogether inartistic announcements as that with 
which the house parlormaid just broke in upon my 
work. 

However, there are far worse things in life than to 



312 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

be obliged to write "pot-boilers." A very much more 
worrying thing would be not to know what to do with 
them when they were written, and to have them re- 
turned with editorial regrets after they were sent out. 
My "hard-up editor" tells me that the "pot-boilers" 
I send him are among my best contributions to Eng- 
lish literature, and that he looks forward with dread 
to the time when I shall have become so prosperous 
that I need not write any more of them. 



The house parlormaid has disturbed me again. 
She has brought a long, large envelope, the sort in 
which I send out my contributions, and the sort, also, 
which I inclose, stamped and self-addressed, for their 
return, if unsuitable. It has an American fifteen 
cent stamp on it. It is a magazine article returned 
from my native land, and here is the editorial note 
that is inclosed with it : — 

"This thing won't do — that is, in its present British 
shape. Lend me your ears, my countrywoman, while 
I tell you that my circulation is entirely among 
Americans who want good hot stuff! I don't exactly 
want you to twist the lion's tail, but I do want you, 
as an American woman over there right on the spot, 
to pitch into 'em. Try those pages over again where 
you see I have put the words 'too tame.' Give it to 
John Bull, for he's all wrong there, and it will do 
him good to be shown what's what. And by the way, 
I send you by this mail an American Spelling Book, 
the kind you and I used to study when we went to 
the District School. Kindly refresh your spelling 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 313 

apparatus with it, and note that 'favor' is not spelt 
with a u in it, and please correct various other of 
your English-spelt words, for I will not have our com- 
positors losing their wits over what they call 'furrin 
tongues' whenever they have anything of yours to 
set up. And why in the world have you got into that 
abominable English habit of writing 'I fancy"? I 
guess you mean that you think, and why don't you 
say so? Don't go to losing your Americanism over 
there, and for Heaven's sake hang on to your accent, 
if you've got any left ! Remember you are a citizen 
of the United States Empire, and don't go to losing 
any of the visible signs and symbols to that effect 
which you have been wont to carry about you. And 
hurry up and re-write those Anglo-maniac para- 
graphs, and send back your stuff by the next mail." 

I put my head on my typewriter and laugh as I 
finish the reading of this characteristic epistle from 
my countryman. Then I note his postscript: "In- 
closed, find encourager !" 

The "encourager" is a check for sixty dollars. 
After all, I really do find myself singing — 

"Oh, everybody's awfully good to me!" 

that is, I mean, almost everybody, in the shape of 
editors and "such." Did I not get another article 
back this morning from one of my favorite English 
editors ? Yes. And this is what he wrote : — 

"I consider this article the best thing you ever 
submitted to me. Nevertheless, I want you to write 
it all over. By re-writing it I feel sure you will note 
several things you can greatly improve, without my 



3H THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

telling you what those things are. I have a feeling 
that yon have hurried it, just a little, probably be- 
cause you have that Autobiography of yours on hand, 
and as I wish this to be of your very best, I am taking 
the liberty of putting you to this trouble. I do this 
as your friend, not as your editor, for, were I but a 
hard-hearted editor, I should run it into my next 
number, which I very much desired to do, even 
though I knew it did not do you justice. Do not 
rush it, but take your time over it, and may I suggest 
that you make some of the passages a little less 
American in their point of view ?" 

So here I am, with two articles returned, not re- 
jected, but to be re-written. My American editor 
wants "good hot stuff" written more from the Ameri- 
can point of view, "pitching into the British/' and 
hurried up to be sent by the next mail. Well, he shall 
have it. How can I take his "encouragers," and not 
give him what he considers their value ? And besides, 
the British do need "pitching into" upon certain 
subjects. 

My English editor wants my article to be of my 
very best from a literary point of view, and I expect 
I was a little too "spread-eagle"-like in certain of my 
paragraphs ! He shall have what he wants, too. I 
will take my time over it, and revise and polish till 
it shines and shines, and perhaps after a while I shall 
become what they call a "stylist" ! 

****** 

And here, brought up to my study, for "company 
to tea," in a flannel-lined, straw-upholstered basket, 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 315 

is a black mother-cat with five coal-black kittens. I 
call them my "lucky literary kittens." They were 
born in my waste-paper basket in my study. Their 
mothe was a "stray." That is, I found her sitting 
on the front step one afternoon, and I invited her to 
come in. That was several months ago, and one 
morning she repaid me for my hospitality by intro- 
ducing me to her five black kittens as I was sitting 
down at my desk and happened to look into the 
waste-paper basket. I have great ambitions for these 
kittens. As they were born into a journalistic atmos- 
phere I wish them to continue to live in that atmos- 
phere all their lives, so I am trying to dispose of them 
among various London newspapers as office cats. I 
have called upon and written to several editors in 
their behalf, and as soon as they are old enough to 
leave their mother, I have no doubt I shall have them 
all well placed. Three are already "bespoke," and 
although one of my editors yesterday declined one 
with thanks when I offered it to him along with a 
manuscript, he has very kindly written a story about 
them, in which he has called upon his contemporaries 
to come to the rescue and take them off my hands. 
They are really lucky kittens to me personally, for 
I have just got a check for a story I wrote about them 
and their mother, which I have entitled "The Luck 
of the Black Cat." 

Meanwhile, I have the kittens on my hands for 
several weeks, and very glad I am of their company. 
Now they jump out on to the floor, joyous, full of 
life and spirit! They perform wonderful feats at 
boxing and tail-chasing, and sometimes they climb 
up to my desk and upset the ink-bottle and create 



316 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

havoc among my papers. How could one be utterly 
cast down or remain long in a fit of "the blues" with 
five kittens having such a glorious time of it, blink- 
ing their little blue eyes in mischief, opening them 
wide with wonder and curiosity? 

****** 

Where's Judge ? 

"Judge ! Judge V I cry out. "Where are you, 
Judge? Ah, here you are, trotting over to my desk, 
putting your beautiful, silky black head into my lap, 
looking up at me with your love-lit eyes ! How 
could I think for one instant that you would fail to be 
here, close by me, my dearest, sweetest, most faithful 
friend, when I add the last touch to these 'memoirs' 
of ours ? How shall we end them, Judge ? Happily ? 
Well, let's try, for happy endings are much desired. 
People want to feel glad, not sad, in the remem- 
brance of a book. But our difficulty is that we have 
been treating of facts, not fiction. If it were a story 
we had made up, we would now pull the strings, and 
bring all our puppets together in the last chapter, 
give apples and peanuts to the good ones, make the 
bad ones fall over a precipice, and good riddance to 
them. But we haven't any puppets in this book. 
We've been writing only about real people and real 
dogs, and we can't pull the strings and bring them 
all together and deal with them according to their 
deserts. 

"Some of them came into our life, and went out of 
it, just like 

" 'Ships that pass in the night, 
And speak each other in passing,' 



OF A "NEWSPAPER GIRL" 317 

then out on the Ocean of Life they went, toward 
what distant shore we know not. Ah! would we not 
call some of them back, Judge, if we could? For 
instance, now, would we not like to have dear old 
Dinah back with us ? You prick up your ears at her 
name, don't you? She was one of our very greatest 
friends, wasn't she? But even she had to pass on, 
after speaking to us for a little while. She thinks 
she's doing right, poor old Dinah, taking in wash- 
ing and ironing and going to camp-meetings, and, 
as she writes us, 'getting ready to go to heaben 
by-em-by. ? 

"Just you and I together, Judge, left here to tell 
our story, as far as it has gone, I the 'heroine/ you 
the 'hero/ In most books they somehow manage 
that the hero and the heroine shall be left together 
at the end, living happily ever after. Shall we not 
manage that, too, Judge, you and I? 

"What's that you're saying, with those speaking 
eyes of yours? Getting to be an old dog now — 
thirteen years old last birthday? Why, Judge, what 
of that? You make me laugh, laugh through my 
tears, as I stroke your dear head and note the gray 
that mingles with the black about your ears. 

"Listen, sweet Judge ! You and I are not of those 
who dare to measure the love and power of our 
Creator in such a way that we'd make Him the God 
only of the two-legged. No, indeed ! You and I are 
going to live happily together ever after." 



THE END 



